


Stiles Stilinski: Pornstar

by roundelet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Porn, Awkward Derek, Body Image, Body Worship, But also, Chubby Stiles, Confident Stiles, Derek Adores Stiles, Explicit Sex, Insecurity, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Pornstar Stiles, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Weight Issues, but not PWP, pornstar derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-11-03 10:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10965405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundelet/pseuds/roundelet
Summary: Stiles awkwardly balances his Forensic Sciences major with his new role as Argent Studios' 'soft young twink' (Peter's words, not his) and his developing feelings for the studios' biggest star.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the readers of my tumblr for their encouragement and comments along the way! I posted the rough draft of the first chapter and got such a nice response, that I ended up sharing a draft of each chapter as I wrote it over the past several months. It ended at 30k words in 9 parts.
> 
> The plan was always to edit and post on AO3 once the first draft was finished. I've plotted out the final story and have content to add that will make it significantly longer.
> 
> Regarding chubby Stiles: This is similar to Ardently in that one of the main plotlines includes chubby Stiles but there's a lot more going on in the story, too. This fic is on the mild side of chubby kink with relatively minor weight gain and body worship. (WARNING: there is fat shaming from Stiles's bosses and internet comments. But, overall, it's intended as a body positive fic.)
> 
> I really enjoy this 'verse. I hope you do, too. Thanks for reading!

 

   
"You're certainly looking well, Mr Stilinski." Peter Hale ushers Stiles into his office, eyes trailing up and down his body.  
  
"Uh, thanks," Stiles says. He fights the urge to cross his arms over himself. To be fair, he is here to negotiate a new contract, so it's not inappropriate for Peter to check out the ‘goods'. But, still, Stiles can't help feel like he's the creepy uncle of Argent Studios. He's even got the goatee for it.

"Very… healthy." Peter presses his lips together.

"Again, thanks?" Stiles says. "I feel healthy. I mean, I am. Healthy, that is. Fit as a fiddle. Didn't get a single cold this winter."

"Good to hear that," comes the dry voice of Peter's executive manager. Lydia Martin looks up from one of the armchairs at Peter's extravagant desk. She closes her laptop with a crisp click and stands up, propping her hands on her hips while she checks him out.

"Jesus, Stiles, seriously?" she asks.

"What?" Stiles looks down at himself to see what's so offensive. Lydia and Peter have both presumably seen him naked in all sorts of contorted positions. Does he have a mustard stain on his shirt? He hasn't eaten anything with mustard today. He doesn't know why he would have a mustard stain. He hasn't had ketchup, either, for that matter. Or even spaghetti sauce.

But his clothes appear intact and unstained, as far as he can tell. He's wearing the untucked button-down and skinny jeans that Kira had made him buy last year. They're more form-fitting and definitely less comfortable than the usual t-shirts and loose jeans he wears to lectures. But Kira had sworn the extravagant price was worth it for how they hugged his toned and lean body.

And, well, Stiles is weak to compliments. So he'd found himself at the register handing over a sizable chunk of his scant royalties.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Only you would show up to your annual contract negotiation out of shape."

"I repeat, what?" Stiles follows her annoyed gaze back down to his body and still doesn't see anything wrong.

"Did you really think we wouldn't notice you'd gained ten, no--" Peter cocks his head. "--eleven pounds since your last short?"

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks incredulously. "No, dude. Do you need to get your eyes checked? I hear vision starts to go in old age."

Peter just raises his eyebrows.

Stiles has never put on an unintentional pound in his life. It took months at the gym last fall to put on an intentional three pounds, and he's pretty sure he lost them again when he started slacking off. And, okay, maybe he's indulged in one or two pints of heartbreak ice cream since Noah broke up with him. But that was nothing for his metabolism.

But a traitorous voice from the back of his head does wonder if this particular outfit was always this tight. But skinny jeans aren't meant to be easy to put on. And if the fabric of his shirt does bunch a little around his waist, that's normal, right? And if the buttons do look a little strained that's--

"Okay, fine," Stiles says, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "But it's three or four pounds at the most. Third, my next film isn't for another month. You know how skinny I am. I probably couldn't keep the weight on if I tried."

"Interesting how you say 'my next film', as if it's a done deal," Lydia observes. "You do realize we have no shortage of young pretty men who can keep their dicks hard in front of the camera?"

"For two hours?" Stiles shoots back. "While bottoming?"

Lydia waves a manicured hand. "You're not as special as you think you are, you know."

She picks up her laptop and her expensive purse and turns to Peter, who is still looking at Stiles with an assessing gaze. "We have that meeting with the Pride organization about our float in ten minutes. We'll find talent with some self-discipline to take his place.

Stiles tries to think. He knows bluffing when he sees it. She's trying to get him to accept an even lower paying contract than his last one. But he can lose whatever few pounds he's gained, easy. The cost of disrupting filming to get your dick hard again is not trivial. Stiles might not have the highest grossing films, but since she forbid Viagra and Cialis as part of turning Argent Studios' reputation around, they can't afford to get rid of guys like him.

He hopes.

He's about to make an argument to that effect, but it turns out Peter is the one to interrupt.

"Hold on for a moment, Miss Martin." He nods at Stiles. "Take off your shirt."

"What? No way." Stiles crosses his arms protectively across his torso. "You want to fat shame me before you fire me? Which you can't even do, by the way, because I'm not fat."

"No one's firing you," Lydia says.

"Really? But--"

"As of today your contract's expired. We just won't renew it. Now, Peter--"

"You know, I'm sure the Calaveras would appreciate me--"

"Ah, but let's not be too hasty," Peter says. He gestures to Stiles. "Your shirt, if you please, Mr Stilinski."

Stiles sighs. Peter at least sounds like he's more amenable to negotiation than Lydia. And it's not like Stiles has anything to lose. To be honest, if it came to it, he would take less money to get his contract renewed. He'd rather deliver pizza than work for the the Calaveras.

So he does as Peter directs and unbuttons his shirt, dropping it on one of the armchairs. And if he sucks in a little, that's his own business.

"Stop sucking your belly in, Mr Stilinski," Peter says.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Peter just raises a knowing eyebrow. "Fine."

Peter steps around him with a calculating eye as he takes him in from all angles.

Stiles looks down at himself and, okay, he maybe, possibly looks slightly less trim than usual. His too-tight jeans aren't helping. But it's not that bad. He starts to say, "I can lose--"

"Do you see what I see?" Peter cuts him off, turning to Lydia.

"I see my time being wasted on a twink who can't stay in shape," Lydia says, tossing her strawberry blond hair over her shoulder.

"Precisely." Peter smirks. "A twink."

Stiles forces himself to stay still as Peter reaches out and traces the small, really small, barely there curve of Stiles's belly.

At that moment, the side door to the office opens behind Peter. Stiles grabs for his shirt as Chris Argent steps in, with his usual haggard features over a crisp gray suit.

"Peter," he asks. "Did you forget our meeting?"

"I was just about to join you. Take a look at our new find, Chris," Peter says smoothly. He gestures over at Stiles, who's awkwardly trying to fit his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.

Chris looks him over with tired eyes. Stiles somehow feels even more judged by Chris than Peter or Lydia. But Chris doesn't say anything except, "I hear the paleo diet does wonders."

"No, no," Peter says. "Look at him. Our soft, young twink."

"This is really your area, not mine," Chris says, opening the door behind himself. "Don't take too long."

Stiles isn't surprised by the dismissal. Everyone knows that Peter, despite being purportedly straight, is the one with the eye for talent. Chris Argent is just Argent Studios' reluctant co-owner.

Peter continues if he hasn't noticed that Chris has left, or that Lydia is packed up and about to follow him out the door.

"He's pretty, he's young, maybe he's just discovering the world of gay sex," Peter says as he touches a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "He still has this innocence, this youth, in his round cheeks and--" Peter gives Stiles's belly a pat "--the baby fat he hasn't yet lost."

"Baby fat? Eww, seriously?" Stiles grimaces.

Peter removes his hand from Stiles's middle and turns back to Lydia, voice more businesslike, "Mr Stilinski here has always been just one of a dime a dozen pretty young gay men in the industry. But perhaps he has just never found his niche. This could be it."

"Uh," Stiles cuts in. "I'm not sure I'm following here. Are you saying you don't want me to lose weight?"

"Peter, chubby doesn't sell in mainstream porn," Lydia tells him. But she's starting to sound hesitant. She might be the mind that turned Argent Studios from a dinosaur of a scandal-ridden studio to a thriving high quality gay pornography powerhouse. But even she doesn't have the reputation of an eye for talent any more than Chris Argent does.

"I'm going to give you a different film, Mr Stilinski," Peter announces just as Stiles is reaching up to button his shirt. He traces out a curve in the air about an inch beyond the extent of Stiles's stomach. "I want this a little more obvious. A little softer, a little rounder right here. Don't go overboard. I want baby fat, not a frat boy's beer belly."

"Okay?" Stiles says, even though he's not entirely clear what he's agreeing to. "Maybe we can not call it 'baby fat', though?"

"Whatever you weigh today, I want you to add–" Peter frowns at his midsection. "Seven pounds to it."

"That's very precise," Stiles says.

"We'll tape in four weeks. Can you do it?"

"Yeah, sure." Stiles shrugs. He wouldn't have been so confident before today. But apparently his body is capable of storing fat after all. And an excuse to eat all the food he wants and not feel guilty about skipping the gym doesn't sound like a bad thing. "No problem."

Peter turns to Lydia. "No webcams or shorts until then. I want to introduce his new look all at once. I will leave you to the–-" Peter gives a twirling gestures "-–details."

"Of course, Peter," Lydia says with a saccharine smile. She sits back down in the armchair and opens her laptop as Peter leaves with a last nod at Stiles.

"I'm going to draw you up a provisional contract. One film," Lydia says as her sharp manicured nails clack across the keyboard. "If it sells–-" her voice makes it clear that she is not expecting that to happen "-–then we'll discuss renewing your contract for another year."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles agrees. "Can I finish buttoning this now?"

Lydia glances up at him and says, "For god's sake, yes."

 

 

Stiles heads downstairs. He's too busy trying to wrap his mind around the weirdest meeting of his life that he doesn't even notice the guy walking up. That is, until he trips into him and falls headfirst down the staircase.

Or, rather, he would have fallen, if not for the strong hand suddenly gripping his upper arm.

"Are you all right?" the guy asks.

"Yeah, I'm–" Stiles stop and stares. Because the guy he just tripped over is Derek Hale.

Derek. Freaking. Hale.

"I'm fine. Perfectly fine," he babbles. "Just, uh, lost in thought, I guess. Thanks for saving me from another concussion."

"Another?" Derek repeats, furrowing his dark brow as he releases Stiles's arm.

"Figure of speech." Stiles waves his hand. He knows he's not making any sense, but seriously?

Life has once again decided not to be fair, because Derek Hale is somehow even hotter in person. Biceps bulge the sleeves of his leather jacket. A toned chest and abs shape his v-neck. Muscular thighs fill out his jeans. And his eyes. His eyes.

He's at Stiles with those eyes. Stiles quickly sucks in his stomach.

"I'm late," Derek tells him. But he doesn't move.

"Okay, man. It was nice to meet you." Stiles turns to continue down the stairs.

"But we didn't meet," Derek says, and Stiles stops.

"All right?" He cocks his head as he holds out his hand. "Hello, I'm Stiles Stilinski."

"Really?" Derek asks, as he clasps his hand to shake it. His hand is warm and it fits in Stiles's hand perfectly and the pads of his fingers are callused and –- and Stiles has been holding on for waaay too long now.

"Yes. I mean, no." Stiles reluctantly drops Derek's hand. "'Stiles' is what everyone calls me. My legal name is only pronounceable in specific regions of Eastern Europe."

"Okay," Derek says. His lips twitch into something that's almost a smile.

Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen Derek smile in his films. In fact, Derek's not acting at all like the aggressive top he's known to be. Even his voice sounds softer.

"I'm Derek–" he starts to introduce himself.  
  
"Derek Hale, I know," Stiles says. He musters all the adderall he's ever ingested to prevent himself from adding that he is well-acquainted with Derek and every film he's ever made and every interview he's ever given and that he spent his first paycheck on the limited edition dildo modeled on his dick.

Derek's face shutters and he says, "I should go."

Stiles isn't sure what he said wrong. He rubs the back of his neck and says, "Yeah. You should do your… thing. The thing you're late for."

Derek heads up the stairs without another word. After a moment, Stiles thinks to call after him, "Hey, it was nice meeting you!"

Derek either doesn't hear him or pretends not to. Stiles wouldn't blame him for either. Especially since it gives him an opportunity to watch his perfect tight ass as he climbs the rest of the stairs.

 

  
"Yeah, the meeting went well," Stiles says into his phone as he walks down the metro stop. "They're extending my contract a little longer, and if it goes well, they'll hopefully give a little more pay."

He hears a sigh on the other end of the line. "Stiles, you shouldn't have to--"

"Dad, dad. We're been over this," Stiles interrupts. "It's good experience. And it's not interfering with my classes. And it means I don't have to take out loans."

"It's menial work," his father argues. And then Stiles hears in the background, "Moreno, will you pick that up already? Yes, in case you can't tell, I happen to already be on the phone."

Stiles chuckles as he glances at the status board. Two minutes until the next train.

"Sorry, Stiles, what were we talking about?"

"About how my job is preparing me well for my future career," Stiles tells him blithely. "And how it's not interfering with my schoolwork in any way."

"Right, and I was pointing out that it's menial paper filing--"

"For a criminal law firm!" Stiles says.

"Son--"

"Oh, look, my train's here, gotta go, pops!"

 

  
"Scotty-boy," Stiles greets him with a grin as he sets down his shopping bags.

Scott squints up at him from the giant organic chem book in his lap and then visibly shakes off the haze of benzene catalysis or whatever torture he's putting himself through this afternoon. The page he has open is highlighted in six colors. Stiles has taught him well.

"So, how'd the contract signing go?" Scott asks. "Did they give you a better rate this year?"

"I met Derek Hale," Stiles blurts out instead of answering.

"He was at your meeting?" Scott looks almost as confused by that as he did by polymerization last week. "Are you going to do a film with him?"

"No, god, I'm pretty sure that's not happening in this lifetime. You know he only does Classics, anyways." Stiles begins unpacking his shopping bags. "I ran into him on the stairs. Literally. Because, well, I am who I am. And why didn't you tell me that he's even more gorgeous up close? You could have prepared me."

"Well, if you didn't run and hide every time he walked by–-"

"You know that I'm afraid I'm going to tell him that I regularly fuck myself on a facsimile of his dick," Stiles reminds him as he stuffs three pints of ice cream in the freezer, then hesitates and leaves one out to eat now.

Scott's eyes widen. "You didn't, though. Did you?"

"No, dude, of course not," Stiles says. "I mean, it was probably a close call. But, no. There was just some awkward handshaking, that was all."

"Okay," Scott says, though he still sounds cautious. Then his eyes fall on the box Stiles is taking out of the next shopping bag. "Uh, why do you have a scale?"

"Oh! Right," Stiles says as he uses his thumbnail to open the box. "It's because of the new contract."

"Huh?"

"You know, you could have told me I was getting fat before I went to the meeting." Stiles gives him a glare as he pushes the batteries into the scale.

"What? You're not fat."

"Don't tell me you didn't notice, dude. Look." Stiles pulls up his shirt and tries to pinch the extra flesh in demonstration.

He actually doesn't manage to pinch that much. Apparently his stomach is more chubby than flabby. But he makes his point, because Scott says, "Oh, huh. All that ice cream did have an effect after all."

"Thanks," Stiles says flatly. "You know, Peter and Lydia saw it right away. You're the one with a front row view, how could you not have noticed?"

"You've been mostly wearing sweats, you know, since the Noah thing," Scott says with a shrug. "And, anyways, it sounds like you didn't even notice."

"Well, if neither of us noticed, it can't be that much, right?"

"Right," Scott says loyally.

Stiles sets the scale down on the linoleum, toes off his shoes, and steps on it. It blinks a few times – 160.5, 165, 164.5 – before settling on 165.5.

Scott suddenly appears over his shoulder.

"It isn't that much," he reassures him. "You're taller than me and I weigh almost that."

"Yeah, but muscles." Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. It's at least ten pounds, which is a little more than the two or three pounds he'd assumed it was. "I've never been more than 155. And that was after months at the gym trying to put on a measly three pounds of muscle."

"Yeah," Scott says. "And you haven't been to the gym in a while."

Stiles shoots him a sharp look. "Thanks again, Scott."

"Sorry." Scott looks away, looking bashful. Stiles follows his eyes to the ice cream on the counter. "Um. So don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure more ice cream is going to help."

"Oh, right." Stiles laughs. It comes out a little more hysterical than he intended. "So about my new contract…"

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Peter hums as he gestures for Stiles to turn around yet again. Stiles suppresses a sigh.

He's naked. Which is not exactly unusual for him in this studio. But he hasn't has his body scrutinized so closely since his audition over a year ago. And, even then, they'd seemed a lot more interested in how long he could stay hard in front of an audience and how competently he could deep-throat one of their best endowed performers.

Stiles has more than proved himself in those areas. But now that he's here, showing off the twenty extra pounds he still feels weird carrying around, he'd much prefer to spend a half hour deep-throating Ennis.

But, if nothing else, at least he's in the wardrobe trailer this time, away from Peter's office and Lydia's judgmental gaze.

Instead, there's Erica's who's looking more curious than judgmental.

Well, more snarky than curious. But, still, it's better than Lydia Martin.

"Got some nice new junk in the trunk, Stilinski," she says.

"Thanks," he says dryly.

"Seriously, straight porn is filled with full-figured women. Why not men's? You know what, I bet Boyd would look great with some more junk in his trunk."

"We are not going for full-figured, Erica, like I said, we want a twink with some baby fat," Peter corrects her. And then pauses and says, "And don't even think about sabotaging Boyd's diet. He has plenty 'junk in his trunk'."

Erica pouts. "It's not fair. All he lets us keep in the fridge are vegetables and chicken."

Peter ignores that and turns to Stiles. He rubs his goatee like some movie villain and asks, "Are you sure you only gained seven pounds?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. On the dot this morning. But maybe it does look like more. It certainly feels like more, especially when he's attempting to button his jeans.

Though, to be fair, he hadn't had time to come to terms with the first ten or so pounds before putting on this extra seven.

"What do you weigh?" Peter asks.

"172.5," he says.

Peter raises his eyebrows and Erica lets out a laugh.

"Wow, you were a skinny thing," she says. "Half the guys here weigh more than that and they have abs."

Stiles glares at her. "Very reassuring, Erica. Thanks for that."

"All right," Peter says with a decisive nod. "I hate to admit I was wrong but you're getting flabby here." He helpfully pinches the lower part of Stiles's stomach. "Lose two pounds by your fitting next week. Erica, I want his costume tailored to his new... dimensions."

"Well, it's not like we have anything off the rack that will flatter him, anyways," she says.

Usually only the top talent gets their clothing tailored. But now he's too fat to look good in anything off the rack. Stiles can't believe this is his life now.

"Yes, he will be unique among our talent," Peter is saying. He gives Stiles a self-satisfied wink as he walks out of the trailer.

Stiles grabs for his clothes.

"Can't believe he really thinks two pounds will make a difference," Erica says as she puts her measuring tape away. Stiles pulls on his boxers. "You drink a couple cartons of that protein drink before the shoot and that'll give you the two pounds back."

"Ugh, does that mean I have to lose four pounds?" he complains. "I mean, I know there haven't been any studies to prove that protein drinks make ejaculate thicker but there aren't any studies that say it doesn't, either. So I'm not going to take the chance."

"No," Erica says. "You can't lose more than two pounds in a week, anyways."

"What? Is that a rule?" Stiles asks. "I've never tried to diet before."

He wishes he'd known he'd only have to gain five pounds. He would have just cut back on the food these last few weeks. Right after his last meeting with Peter, he'd started by filling up on junk food. But had gotten sick of that after a few days and had had to start eating healthy meals from the college cafeteria again. He just ate larger portions than usual. And kept up with some chips and ice cream on the side.

"Well, I'd say that was unfair, except--" Erica gestures at him with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles sighs. "Yes, I'm aware I'm fat now. Thank you."

"No, it's cute on you," Erica says. "If you weren't in porn no one would even think you were at all chubby, you know. You're probably not even overweight."

"Well, I am in porn and I'd like to keep paying my tuition," Stiles tells her.

"Fair," she says. "Okay, drink of water. No sodas. Lean protein like fish and chicken. Salads. Limit the carbs. And no junk food. I'd say you could have a cheat day except you only have a week. And I'd also say exercise, but Peter wants you to look soft, so maybe not."

"Noted," Stiles says. The diet actually doesn't sound terrible. It's pretty much what he's made his dad eat for years. "How do you know this?"

Erica raises an eyebrow. "I am a women."

Stiles looks her up and down, trying to be subtle. Erica is slender with enough curves to make her low-cut shirt and short skirt work for her. Stiles is bisexual enough to appreciate that.

"Like what you see?" Erica smirks at him, because he apparently wasn't subtle enough.

"Uh," Stiles says. He's not sure there's a right answer to that.

"Get going, Stilinski." She waves him off, shaking her head.

 

  
"Who you with today?" Stiles asks Scott as they ride side by side on the metro.

"Liam again," Scott says with a shrug. "We're doing one of the insides for a pool boy shoot."

"Man, the classic plot and I've never gotten to be fucked as a pool boy," Stiles complains. Then notices the passenger sitting next to him has a toddler on her lap and she's glaring at him. "Sorry," he mutters. Then turns back to Scott. "I mean, I've never gotten to have sex as a pool boy."

When they get to the set, Scott heads over to the wardrobe with Stiles, and smiles wide as he greets Sydney. She gives him a timid, but kind smile. She's way nicer than Erica, who he's supposed to be meeting here again.

And who, case in point, comes out of the back, sees Stiles, and promptly says, "You're late. Take off your clothes before Peter gets here."

"Fine," he says. "And hello to you too."

"Did you lose the weight?" she asks, taking out her measuring tape.

"Yup. But three pounds," Stiles says. "I'll have to drink a pound of water before the shoot."

"I don't think that's how weight works, man," Scott says from the next station. He's shirtless, showing off his own muscled 11% body fat frame, while he unbuttons his jeans. Sydney is waiting patiently. Unlike a certain person who's tapping her fingers on her crossed arms waiting for Stiles.

Scott continues, "But what difference does one pound make, anyways?"

"Dude, I don't even know the difference three pounds makes," Stiles says.

He still has a muffin top no matter what he wears. He hasn't spent his money on anything in his new size, but his clothes had been loose and comfortable back when he'd been thin. He hadn't seen any reason to show off his nice enough but not amazing body in class. He did it enough in front of cameras.

So, logically, his old clothes should have fit, just a bit more snugly. But they don't. And he doesn't want to waste money on a new wardrobe. If this film doesn't sell well, and he doesn't exactly share Peter's optimism on that, he'll have to lose the weight anyways in order to have any chance at keeping his job.

Stiles strips down to his boxers and folds his khakis, t-shirt and flannel over the back of a chair.

He'd always been a little jealous of the guys with actual muscles. All he'd ever had were only slightly toned arms and a flat stomach and once in a while a hint of abs, with the right lighting, no matter how many sit-ups he did. Which, okay, weren't that many, to be fair.

Even then, though, he'd felt comfortable with his body for the first time in his life when he'd realized that people had paid actual money to watch him get fucked on camera. He remembers wishing he could go back in time and tell his high school self this.

But now, what's he going to tell his high school self? We were attractive enough once, but then we got fat and no one wanted to pay to see that, so then we got fired and had to deliver pizzas for a living.

"Dude, why are you so fixated on delivering pizzas?" Scott asks, because Stiles must have said that last part out loud. "You know there are other jobs out there, right?"

"Yeah, I could become a file clerk for a law firm," Stiles says sarcastically.

"Does your dad really still believe that?" Scott asks, brow furrowed.

"Stiles," Erica cuts in. She's standing there with her arms folded under her generous chest, shirt once again pushing the edge of decency.

Though, what is the definition of 'decency' in a porn studio?

"Okay, right," Stiles shakes his head and reluctantly steps forward to her.

"Arms up," she says. And then efficiently measures measure him in at least seven places.

"Wow," Stiles says. "This is going to be super detailed tailoring."

Erica rolls her eyes. "You might make another film someday. Who knows?"

"Right," Stiles says. His next one is filming in three days. It's an actual full-length, meaning about thirty minute, film. Stiles has only done three before, and his last one was in the fall. He's usually in shorts. Or webcams. Though Lydia keeps getting on him for not cleaning his room before the webcams, Stiles thinks the piles of clothes on the floor and papers scattered over his desk give it an authentic ambiance.

"See you, man!" Scott waves because Sydney must have finished touching up his nonexistent blemishes.

"Find me in the library. I'll be the one buried in Calculus II," Stiles tells him. And Scott shoots him a thumbs up before heading out.

Erica's sitting at the makeup, jotting down Stiles's numbers.

"We put you in 30's before, right?" she asks.

"Yeah, I think so. Sometimes 28 on the skinny stuff," he says. Most of his own clothes are loose pants with 30 inch waists and small or medium shirts. Not only have his jeans gotten hard to button, but a few of his favorite shirts are starting to round out over his belly.

"You're definitely not fitting in 28's again anytime soon," Erica tells him. "I'm going to have you try on a couple shirts. Peter had very specific criteria on how he wants them to fit."

"Why am I not surprised," Stiles mumbles as she hands him a t-shirt.

"Peter wants them snug enough to show off your new belly but not so tight that it looks like you're outgrowing them," Erica says, running her eyes up and down his torso. "You're supposed to look like you're young and naive enough not to be self-conscious that you haven't grown your baby fat. Turn around."

Stiles does and is now facing the full-length mirror he's been trying to avoid. He's not that big, but he looks different. Are his cheeks softer? His tummy rounds forward in a smooth curve, straining the fabric of the shirt at the sides. The sleeves of the shirt feel snug around his upper arms, despite the fact that he hasn't been to the gym in months. And there's a subtle softness to his bare thighs, which might be as much from lack of running lately as from the new weight.

"All right, this one falls into the too tight category," Erica decides.

"Agreed."

Stiles manages to tangle his elbows in it as he pulls it over his head. Erica rolls her eyes as she hands him the next shirt.

 

  
"So, whatcha got for me?" Stiles asks. He drops his backpack down next to the styling station and grins over at Erica.

She holds up a finger as she says into her phone, "Yeah, he's here now. Love you, boo, gotta go."

"Boo?" Stiles asks with a laugh as she glares at him. "Is that short for Boyd or boyfriend or both?"

"Shut up, Stilinski. And take off your clothes."

Stiles waggles his eyebrows at her. "Yes, ma'am."

Stiles has never worn tailored jeans before. They make his ass look amazing. The waist fits perfectly, slung low around his newly padded hipbones, just under where the bottom part of his belly starts to curve out. Somehow it doesn't even give him a muffin top the way even his own new pants do.

"You done admiring yourself or do you need a little time alone with the mirror?" Erica asks.

"Can I take these jeans home?" Stiles asks.

"Not a chance. Now, put this on."

It's a long-sleeved logo tee for a band Stiles doesn't recognize. Once he has it on, Erica adjusts the hem, then smooths the fabric over his middle. It's a weird sensation, feeling her hand pressing into the softness of his new belly. It makes him almost suck in automatically, but he forces himself not to. Erica measured him all over last week, after all.

Not to mention that she's manhandled him in much more intimate ways to get clothes fitting the way they want. After the infamous jock-strap-that-wouldn't-stay-on last, Stiles figures there's nothing to be shy about.

But. Well. His belly is new. And he's not used to anyone touching it. He hasn't slept with anyone -– personally or professionally –- since the short a month after his break up with Noah.

Erica takes a step back and eyes him critically.

"It's not right," she says. "You didn't gain more weight, did you?"

"It's been two days," Stiles reminds her.

Erica sighs. "Fine. At least the jeans work. Give me the shirt back. And don't move."

Stiles waits while she disappears into the back.

The problem is, there are mirrors everywhere. He sits down and has the pleasure of seeing from every angle the way that sitting makes his bare belly round out further. It's not like it's in his lap or anything, but it's obvious enough that he decides to stand as he waits.

This whole thing was such a stupid idea. Stiles's new ‘look' is probably going to be obvious in the preview for the film, and no one's going to buy it. And then Stiles is going to be out of a job. All because Peter thought it would be a good idea for him to gain weight, rather than just lose his few post-breakup pounds.

"Stiles?"

The unexpected voice startles him out of his rising anxiety. Stiles jerks his eyes over to see – Derek Hale. Derek freaking Hale. Just happening to pass by looking like sex on a stick with some scruff, a black leather jacket and jeans that fit his thighs like a glove. A very lucky glove.

"Hey, Derek. Derek Hale. You're here." Stiles tries to casually cross his arms over his bare torso. "What's up?"

"Are you okay?" Derek asks, frowning.

"Yeah, perfectly fine. Just waiting for a shirt. As you can see. Not that I'm going to get to keep it on for long, right?" Stiles laughs awkwardly.

"Right," Derek says. He shifts in place, has this look like half of him is trying to walk away but the other half is making him stay. He crosses his arms over his chest, matching Stiles's pose but raising the ante with muscles. He says with a frown, "You look different."

"Yeah, well, blame your uncle," Stiles mutters.

"Good different," Derek says. "Not that you didn't look good before. But. You look good."

"Oh, um, thanks," Stiles says. He knows Derek's just being awkwardly polite, but the effort is appreciated. He needs to change the subject, so he asks, in a brighter tone, "So what are you doing over here with us low-class peons? Switching back to mainstream? Ooh! Are you finally going to film the long awaited sequel to You Got Babe 3?"

Derek's lips twitch. "It's been five years. And I don't think anyone was asking for for the first two sequels, let alone a third."

"I beg to differ, dude," Stiles says with a grin. "Your fans have been holding their breath after that last cliffhanger. Is the pool boy finally going to join in on the fun?"

"Are you one of them?" Derek asks.

"Not yet."

"Oh," Derek says, expression blank.

"Yeah, can you believe I've been here a year and never gotten to be a pool boy? This is my lifelong porn dream, dude." Stiles only realizes he's thrown his arms wide gesturing when he catches quick flick of Derek's eyes back down to his midsection. He quickly crosses his arms again and continues, "I would be a kick ass pool boy, too. I could titrate the fuck out of chlorine, I'm not taking four semesters of chemistry for nothing."

"No, I meant–-" Derek starts, then shakes his head. "Chemistry? You're a science major?"

"Yup, forensic science." Stiles grins. "My dad's the sheriff of our town back in California. I spent most of my childhood down at the station sneaking into evidence lockers. So I figured, I like science, I like solving crime. Why not do both, right? Plus it'll piss off my high school chem teacher who said I'll never amount to anything. Not in those words, though, in a lot more words than that. But, anyways, I haven't even set anything on fire yet this semester, so I'm well on my way to passing the lab section."

"This semester?" Derek repeats, lips curving up again. And, shit, he's beautiful like this. Stiles would really like to know what he'd look like with a real smile.

"It was only the one time last fall," Stiles defends himself. "They acted like no one's ever set their partner's lab manual on fire before. Hello? Bunsen burners are an open flame. What do you expect?"

Derek huffs out a laugh.

How is this Stiles's life? Standing half-naked in wardrobe, about to film a porno, having a casual chat about college majors and career choices with the guy who was pretty much responsible for Stiles realizing he was gay at fourteen.

Derek opens his mouth like he's going to say something else but then Erica and Peter appear over his shoulder.

"Hey, Derek," Erica gives him a slap on a very well muscled arm as she passes by with a pile of shirts. "What are you up to?"

"Table read for The Lovers," Derek says, taking a step back as Erica hands Stiles a new shirt. He turns to Peter. "Uncle."

"Ah, my favorite nephew," Peter says. "Have you given any more thought to what we talked about the other day?"

Derek stiffens and Stiles looks on curiously, until Erica slaps his arm and he remembers he's holding a shirt in his arms that he's supposed to be trying on. By the time he gets it pulled over his head, he catches sight of Derek walking out of the trailer. Obviously he saw an opportunity to escape and took it. Stiles can't blame him. He would escape Peter, too, if he could.

These days, Derek only does two or maybe three films a year, and they're the kind of films that require 'table reads' and 'dress rehearsals' and multiple days, if not weeks, of filming. Argent Classics are like regular movies that Stiles and Scott would go to the theater and see. Except that there are more hard dicks and full-frontal nudity and fewer superheroes.

Argent Classics was one of Lydia's ideas, of course. It started with a gay remake of Deep Throat, which ended up being a cult hit even outside the pornography community. Derek wasn't in that one, but it wasn't too long before he transitioned to doing almost all Classics. He hasn't been in a regular Argent Studios film in over two years now. It's both a relief (Stiles doesn't have to go through the anxiety of showing up one day to find out that Derek Hale is his co-star) and a huge disappointment (Stiles isn't going to show up one day and discover that Derek Hale is his co-star).

"Stiles, let me see you. Turn around for me," Peter instructs, pulling him out of his reverie.

He gives Peter a 360 degree view and finds him pursing his lips as he eyes him up and down.

Stiles straightens up and tries to exude an air of confidence, but the thoughts keep running through his mind. What if he realizes this is a bad idea? Will he at least let him do the film before kicking him out?

But the word that comes out of Peter's mouth is, "Perfect."

"Huh?"

"Yes. Exactly the look I was hoping for. Well done, Mr Stilinski." Peter gives him a nod of approval and Stiles can't tell if he's sarcastic or serious right now, congratulating Stiles on getting chubby.

Probably serious, if he knows Peter at all.

"Stiles, sit down." Erica commands, turning the makeup chair around. "I don't know what's going on with your hair but your filming is starting any minute now."

"Yes, ma'am," Stiles says as he plops down into the chair.

"A bit of baby fat does wonders for your look, I must say," Peter tells him.

"Do we have to keep calling it that?"

"Keep your weight right there," Peter continues. "And don't start doing ab work now. Keep that nice little curve."

"Hey, how do you know I don't do a hundred crunches a day now?" Stiles demands. "I could be."

Peter just raises a pointed eyebrow. Stiles sighs.

"Pity I can't stay and watch the taping," Peter says as he strides out of the trailer. "But, alas, I have other obligations. But I promise I shall watch it later."

"Great," Stiles mutters. Just what he needs to be thinking about when he's going to need to keep his dick hard for hours today.

"Stay still, Stiles," Erica points, sounding impatient with a container of gel in her hand. "We don't have all day."

 

By the time Stiles makes it through the large warehouse to Stage B, the cameras are in place, Finstock is in his personalized director's chair and Jackson is straddling a bench in the two-thirds of a locker room set, looking his proprietary combination of bored and annoyed.

"Bilinski, what the hell took you so long," Finstock barks from the director's chair. He narrows his eyes. "And why do you look like a before picture in a weight loss ad?"

"It's my new look," Stiles says.

"Whatever," Finstock shakes his head. "You lubed up at least?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Seeing as I'm not into pain and I faint at the sight of blood, that's a yes."

Something else appears to catch Finstock's eye and he turns and starts berating one of the cameramen instead of registering Stiles's remark.

Stiles heads over to the offstage locker room entrance.

"Nice of you to keep us waiting," Jackson drawls at him. He steps off the bench to meet Stiles in the fake doorway. Jackson's in gym shorts and a tank top emblazoned with "Thruston High" and a bull mascot because subtlety is not to be found in this studio.

His lean muscles are highlighted by a sheen of sweat. Or rather, glycerin and water. Stiles has attempted to explain to more than one of his co-stars the fortuitous qualities of hydrophobia and surface tension that make the photogenic glistening droplets.

Last time he brought it up to Jackson on a break, he'd simply walked away.

Jackson's looking him up and down, so Stiles asks, "Did you hear about the–"

"The baby fat?" Jackson finishes for him.

"Oh, god, Peter got to you, didn't he?" Stiles crosses his arms around himself.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'd still fuck you."

"Good to hear, seeing as that's what you're getting paid to do," Stiles says dryly.

Jackson makes a non-committal sound as he steps into Stiles's space. "Don't be so fucking self-conscious, Stilinski. Who knows? Might be a nice change of pace, to have something to hold onto."

"Places!" Finstock calls out. "And, for god's sake, how many times do I have to tell you to get that light closer?"

"I don't have anything to hold onto," Stiles protests. He might be carrying twenty extra pounds and a little bit of a belly but he doesn't have love handles. He doesn't even have a muffin top in Erica's these tailored jeans.

"We'll see," Jackson says with a smirk and turns to head back to his starting place on the changing bench.

He straddles the bench next to the row of fake lockers and grabs a weight off the floor and does a casual curl, bicep bulging.

Jackson wasn't Stiles's first partner at Argent Studios –- that honor belonged to Aiden unless he's counting Ennis at his audition which he is definitely not –- but he was one of the first. He's cocky as hell, and a bit of an asshole, but he also goes and does almost human things like reassure Stiles that his new look isn't a problem. In his own way, of course.

Stiles wasn't surprised when he heard this film would be with Jackson. Neither of them were stars of the studio but the Drake Colton/Dylan Banks films sell well enough. Stiles read a review once that said that Dylan has a particular defiance when he works with Colton that makes the vulnerability when he finally 'submits' to him all the more hot.

Whatever. This isn't some Argent After Dark BDSM film. Stiles doesn't 'submit' to Jackson. Jackson just has a nice cock and the decency to hit Stiles's prostate once in a while. Which occasionally results in Stiles forgetting his lines. But it's not like Stiles says the lines he's supposed to all that often anyways. Greenberg scripts are just painful.

"All right people, everyone shut up!" Finstock's voice booms through his very unnecessary director's megaphone. Stiles puts his hands over his ears. "This is The Locker Room, take one. Very original name, by the way, classy content we're putting out here."

One of the production assistants hands him a stack of textbooks and smooths down the wrinkles in his shirt.

"Action!" Finstock yells through the megaphone.

Stiles steps onto the set and takes in the locker room. Upon seeing Jackson, he says, "Oh, hey. I've been looking all over for you. Your coach said you might be here."

"Didn't realize you knew where the locker room was," Jackson retorts, continuing his bicep curls.

"Of course I know where the locker room is," Stiles says defensively, but lets his voice catch as his eyes linger on the bulge of Jackson's biceps. He shifts the textbooks in his arm and he's supposed to say something in awe of Jackson's athletic prowess, but instead he improvises, "I'd just rather learn something and get into an actual college than spend all my time practicing a sport that no one even cares about."

Jackson just raises a cocky eyebrow. He's more than used to Stiles by now, which might be another reason they're paired up together. He gets back on script with, "See something you like?"

"No," Stiles denies, but lets his eyes linger on Jackson's body.

"Sure about that?"

Jackson sets the weight down and stands up, using a towel to wipe the back of his neck. And, because this isn't his first rodeo, he arches his back while he does it and his tank top rides up his flat lower abdomen.

"Tell me, are you really here for the project?" Jackson demands.

"Why else would I be here?" Stiles asks, gripping his books tighter.

"You tell me." Jackson smirks as he steps up close.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Stiles steps into the kitchen, rubbing bleary eyes. He'd closed down the library with Danny and Allison finishing the first part of their physics group project. He'd come home to finish calculus problem sets he'd been putting off, and then he'd laid in bed unable to sleep the three hours he'd allotted himself because Adderall is a fickle friend.

"Hey, Stiles! Check this out."

"Huh?" Stiles opens the fridge door, yawning. "Do you have coffee? I don't smell coffee."

"No coffee, buddy, sorry." Scott sounds genuinely contrite.

Stiles sighs and grabs the milk carton and takes a long sip. Scott doesn’t complain because he is the best bro-slash-roommate ever and he is eternally glad to have found him when he was lost and bewildered his first day on the Argent Studios set.

"But I do have something else," Scott says. He's turning his laptop around on the table for Stiles to see. Stiles squints at it from across the kitchen.

"What is it?"

“Just come here.”

Stiles glances at their sad, stained coffeemaker and grabs a Red Bull from the fridge instead. He opens it and takes a long sip, and scratches his stomach. He pauses for a moment, still not used to more of a stomach to scratch. But then lowers his shirt and takes another swig of Red Bull.

He sits down slowly in the chair next to Scott, well aware of the chair's delicate fourth leg.

"You ready yet?" Scott asks. He looks amused and Stiles is fully aware it's on his account.

Stiles glances at the Argent Studios "Films" page. They'd released the new batch of films and shorts last night. Stiles vaguely remembers trying to hide his phone's email notification during a heated debate with Allison over rotary motion.

He glances through the Top Ten list in the center of the page for Scott's film. And there it is. The Mechanic 2 (Tyler Wolf/Justin Kline) at number 9.

"Dude!" Stiles fist bumps Scott. "Debut in the top ten! Nice."

"Thanks, but that wasn't actually what I was showing you. Look closer."

"Uh?" Stiles glances around the page. There are ads on the page the new films. There's a still of a smirking Scott holding a wrench that Stiles notes to himself to sneak onto the background of Scott's phone.

Then he sees The Locker Room's promo. Stiles is bracing his elbows on the wall of lockers while Jackson's holding him around his middle, arching back. If they'd been like any other porn site in existence, they wouldn't have cut off the good part, and you'd see Jackson's dick buried in Stiles's ass.

There's always been an aesthetic contrast between Stiles and Jackson: the cut of Jackson's slender muscles and the lithe lines of Stiles's body. People seemed to appreciate that, though maybe not as much as Stiles 'submitting' (haha) to Jackson.

There's a definitely still a contrast now, obvious even in this one photo. Stiles doesn't look that big next to Jackson. But where he was used to seeing the contrast in his slimmer figure, now it's in his softer one. Jackson's arms wrap around his waist and somehow instead of hiding his new chub, the position emphasizes the smooth curve of Stiles's small belly.

Stiles can admit that maybe he does look like the naive virgin twink that Peter had been going for. But he's still not saying the word 'baby fat'.

"What was that about 'baby fat'?" Scott asks, brow furrowed.

"Nothing," Stiles says quickly. He has to stop saying these things aloud.

"Well, you're still not seeing it. How late did you stay up last night?"

"You're implying that at some point I went to sleep," Stiles points out, and pointedly takes a last chug of the Red Bull.

Scott sighs and points a finger at the screen. "Well, here. Maybe this will cheer you up."

Next to the number 7 is The Locker Room (Drake Colton/Dylan Banks).

"Oh," he says.

"Oh," Scott echoes. He's grinning at him and holding up a fist. Stiles takes a moment, then answers his grin and fist bumps him again.

"I'm in the top ten," he says.

"I know!" Scott says.

"I've never been in the top ten before."

"I know!"

"Oh my god, we're both in the top ten!" Stiles exclaims. "We should celebrate. Do you want a Red Bull?"

"How about some actual food first?" Scott says, standing up. "Here, I'll get you some Frosted Flakes. Extra-large bowl. Peter's going to want you to keep your figure."

Stiles returns to stare in wonder at the screen. He reaches for the trackpad to click on the link to The Locker Room's page, and then starts scrolling down.

Except, before he can get to the comments, Scott snatches his laptop away.

“Hey! I was reading that."

“What did I tell you about reading the comments? It’s the first lesson I taught you.” Scott says as he closes the laptop and sets it on the kitchen counter out of Stiles's reach.

“I know, I know. Don’t read the comments.” Stiles sighs. "But it's not fair. You always read the comments."

"I'm allowed to read the comments because I don't read them to look for find reasons I don't deserve my job. I read them for feedback," Scott says as he places a towering bowl of cereal in front of Stiles.

Scott is the type to take his films' comments as useful critique. He also watches his own videos, beginning to end, to figure out what he can do better next time. It's ridiculous that he takes his job so seriously. It's porn. Stiles shows up, he gets fucked, he gets a paycheck. It's not complicated.

Maybe it's different if you're a top. But he suspects that it's just if you're Scott McCall.

"Whatever," Stiles says, stuffing a spoonful of Frosted Flakes in his mouth.

 

Later, on his own laptop while Scott's in class, Stiles logs into the Argent Studios website and clicks on The Locker Room, which is now up to number six in the top ten.

Stiles knows Scott is right to some degree. Stiles's self-esteem is a delicate balance of blustering and sarcasm. A balance that is easily tipped over. But Scott is wrong if he thinks that Stiles can let anything go without investigating it.

Most of the comments on Stiles's films are along the lines of either 'hot’ or 'not’. Inevitably followed by compliments or insults to Stiles’s or the top's looks. There's usually a lot more attention on whoever's topping and his dick and his cum shot than there is on Stiles's 'performance'.

If it’s Greenburg who wrote the screenplay, there will also be a solitary 'A++ plot’ or 'amazing writing’ or 'someone should give this writer a raise!’ by the subtle pseudonym like "greenburgrocks".

Stiles's videos usually get seven or eight comments. He bites on his thumbnail as he scrolls down to the fifty-seven comments that The Locker Room got.

He makes it through 'fucking hot’, 'i would ride Colton’s cock any day’ and 'if only Argent Classics had a writer this good!’ and then finally sees: 'when did Dylan get fat???’.

He scrolls down, eyes catching on the comments about his new look. There are conjectures about how much weight he’s gained and people wondering why Argent Studios didn’t make him get back in shape before filming.

And there definitely are the 'can’t believe he let himself go’ and 'he used to actually be sort of hot, what happened?’. Strangely, there's only a few of those. There are a lot more comments talking about how 'cute’ he looks, how 'refreshing' it is to see something other than six pack abs on here (not that Stiles ever had those), about how much younger he looks. About halfway down, there’s a suspiciously worded comment that uses the words 'soft young twink’ and 'baby fat’ (by a "ph18"). And, subsequently, to Stiles’s chagrin -- and, he's sure, to Peter's smug self-accolade -- 'soft twink’ and 'baby fat’ start showing up in other people’s comments.

And then Stiles finds a puzzling 'you know, guys, he was already getting chubby in his last short’ with a link that Stiles clicks on against his better judgement. (His better judgement is Scott and Scott's in biochem right now.)

Stiles finds three side by side comparison stills. The first is from a film he shot six months ago with Jackson, the second from his last short with Boyd, and the last from The Locker Room. The first shot has the usual lean angles Stiles is used to seeing. The second is pretty much the same, except there’s maybe a tiny bit of pudge over his lower stomach, helpfully pointed out with a Microsoft Paint arrow. In the third shot? There are arrows pointing at his belly, his hips, his ass, his thighs, even his cheeks. No actual words. Because, apparently, enough said.

He stares at it for a long time. It's fascinating and also embarrassing seeing all his new bits of chub pointed out publicly, and in such detail. He'd shot the short with Boyd a few weeks after Noah broke up with him, so he supposes the few extra pounds make sense. He hadn't gained ten pounds in the day before his fateful contract meeting with Peter and Lydia, after all.

And the third shot looks... well, probably about what almost twenty pounds looks like.

When he clicks back to the comments, he sees the same commenter, a few posts down, saying, excitedly, 'look at this!’ with a link to another offsite photo. This one is a screenshot of Stiles’s profile and an arrow pointing to 'Weight: 155 lbs’. The guy then points out, as if this is on the level of a CIA cover-up, that on Stiles’s current profile page, the number has been deleted.

Stiles clicks over and, indeed, the weight is blank. The 'Weight: ' makes it look more conspicuous than just deleting the line like they usually do for profiles that are missing information. Stiles groans, because no way this isn’t Peter’s doing and exactly Peter’s intention.

 

Stiles hears raised voices in Lydia's office, but the door's open, so he goes ahead and steps inside.

"Hey, I, uh --" Stiles begins.

"Stiles, we're in the middle of a meeting here," Lydia says. She's standing at her desk, mouth in a flat line.

And it's Derek Hale standing on the other side of the desk. He's in yet another black jacket -- how many of those does he own? -- and obscene jeans. His eyes flashing at Lydia. He looks a lot more like the aggressive top from his films now compared to the times Stiles had met him before.

"Sorry, but you said to meet you to sign the new contract and I have to get back to campus for Forensics at three fifteen," he explains, lifting his backpack on his shoulder in demonstration.

"Stiles, I'll be with you in a minute," Lydia says crossly.

"No, we're done. I don't want to keep an actual important appointment waiting," Derek sneers at her.

"Derek--" she starts.

He stomps out, not even looking at Stiles as he passes. Which, all right. It's not like they've shared two conversations, one in which lives were saved and another in which there was shirtless bonding over Stiles telling Derek his life story. Whatever.

"Stiles? Are you coming in?" he hears Lydia ask impatiently.

Stiles whirls around from where he's apparently been staring at Derek's very stare-able back.

"Yes, coming in. Coming. Right now," Stiles says, and gives her a wink.

 

It's not a bad deal. It's an exclusive contract, like all Argent Studios contracts, which is another unusual thing in the industry, apparently. The monthly retainer and the fee per short and per film are all a little higher than his last contract. He still has a royalty percentage on the films and a higher cut of the webcams. The main difference, though, is the weight stipulation: that he stay within five pounds of 170 pounds.

"Is that five pounds either way?" Stiles asks her. "Or five pounds total, like, 168 through 173? Because if that's the case, it should really be specified here. And do you even have a scale here? How are you going to enforce that?"

Lydia taps her manicured nails -- coral this time to match her sweater -- on the desk. "I don't really care. Just take it as it's written and sign it already."

"Well, it reads like 165 through 175 pounds," Stiles says. This lack of precision is very unlike Lydia. "And Peter was all picky about me losing two pounds for the last film."

"What difference does two pounds make?" Lydia asks.

"Exactly my point!"

"And my point is, just sign the damn thing," Lydia says. She opens her laptop again and clicks a couple times. "I have better things to do than debate how overweight you are."

"You know, I don't think I'm even actually overweight?" Stiles says. "I probably just have one of those frames--"

"Stilinski."

"Fine," Stiles says petulantly. He's not even sure why he's arguing since he's getting the better end of the deal signing it as is. So he does so.

 

He runs into Derek at the employee exit from the studio warehouse. He's leaning against the wall, apparently doing nothing but waiting there. And he actually appears to recognize him this time.

"How'd the contract signing go?" he asks, as if continuing a conversation they never actually had.

"Fine," Stiles says, crossing his arms. He's still got his backpack, heavy with his forensic science textbook and the extra readings, over one shoulder.

"Show it to me," Derek says, holding out a hand.

"What? Dude, no," Stiles says. "That's personal financial information. Also I don't really feel like being laughed at by someone who makes a million dollars a film."

Derek rolls his eyes. "I just want to make sure they gave you a fair deal."

"I got a fine deal," Stiles says defensively. "I get paid a little more than last year and get a bigger cut of the royalties in exchange for staying fat."

He wishes he hadn't said that last part when Derek's eyes flick up and down his body.

"You're nowhere close to fat, you know," Derek says.

"Yeah, well." Stiles gestures around them at the gigantic warehouse that is Argent Studios. "Compared to every other guy here, I am."

Derek shakes his head. "I told you. You look good. And if you believed that, you'd be more confident and your films would do better."

"I got in the top ten this time," Stiles says defensively. "Just because I'm not you, doesn't mean I'm doing that bad."

"I know you did," Derek says. He runs an aggravated hand through his hair. "And that's not what I -- never mind."

"Okay, well, I gotta head to the metro or I'm going to be late."

"To the university, right?" Derek asks. "I'll drive you."

"What?" Stiles stares at him again. "No, dude, that's a nice offer, but the stop's right here. It's fine."

"You just said you were going to be late to your class," Derek says. "And I'm going that way, anyways."

"You are?"

Derek just starts walking out the exit, as if he's confident Stiles will follow him.

This is insanely surreal, being annoyed with the pornstar he's been obsessed about since he was fourteen. And he's about to get in his car so he can give him a ride to class.

Derek leads him to a black Camaro, parked in a reserved space next to the entrance.

"Why am I not surprised?" Stiles mutters.

Derek raises an eyebrow as he holds the passenger door open for Stiles to get in. Stiles bites his tongue before he can say anything about how he's not the girl on a date here, because he's having trouble phrasing that in a non-hetero-normative non-misogynistic way.

"What side of campus is forensics on?" Derek asks as he starts up the car. Stiles stuffs his backpack between his feet and uses the electric dial to move the seat so there's room for his legs.

"East side. But you can drop me wherever's on your way. You're already saving me a ton of time here," Stiles says.

He thinks he sees Derek's lips curve up, just a little. He says, "I can also drop you off on the East side of campus."

"All right. Thanks, dude," Stiles says. And then he feels a little weird about calling the Derek Hale 'dude'. But this isn't 'The Derek Hale', anyways. This is Derek.

He happens to glance down at where his soft belly is poking out between the seat belts. It's not a good look. He sucks it in until it looks almost flat.

"So what was that about with Lydia?" Stiles asks.

He sees Derek's jaw tense and there's a long pause.

"Sorry, man, it's none of my business," Stiles backtracks.

"No, it's all right," Derek says and then sighs. "She wants me in their 'It Gets Better' series."

"Oh, yeah," Stiles says. "Scott and Isaac are doing that, I think they're filming in a few days. Uh, they're both actors doing the regular Argent films."

"I know who they are," Derek says. "I've worked with Isaac."

"Right," Stiles says. Isaac was around before Derek moved on to Classics. He taps his fingers on his thigh distractedly. "Anyways, Lydia didn't ask me. I mean, she'd have no reason to, anyways. I pretty much came out by asking every guy in my high school if I was attractive to gay guys. Shocker: very few 'yes' answers. And when I told my dad he just laughed at me for thinking he didn't already know."

"What about your mom?" Derek asks as they edge up slowly at a downtown stoplight.

"My mom's not -- um, that was after she died," Stiles says.

"Oh," is all Derek says. And Stiles figures, with both Derek's parents and two of his younger siblings dying in a car crash almost ten years ago, he more than gets it.

"Anyways," Stiles says to try to change the subject. He realizes he's been talking about himself for the last ten minutes and not even letting Derek answer the question. "I think I get it, you know. Why you wouldn't want to do it. I mean, you kind of already did the whole 'It Gets Better' thing years ago."

Derek turns to him, giving him a surprised look. "You actually think so?"

Stiles figures it's better for both of them if he doesn't go specifically into why. Derek had been 18 and it had been just after his parents died. His family was old money -- lots of old money -- and they'd still been all over the news. Derek hadn't been 'out' yet back then. And somehow, back when Gerard Argent used to run the Argent Studios -- and it had more than earned the sleazy reputation it had -- his daughter Kate Argent had managed to film Derek fucking another guy.

She'd posted it on their actual website, because she was obviously someone who didn't realize there were things like laws. It had gone viral, obviously. Derek was as hot as eighteen as he is now, and, even if he wasn't, the scandal alone of one of the Hale heirs having a gay sex tape would have done it.

His uncle Peter, sued on his behalf and managed to settle out of court by paying a very low price for 49% share of the Argent Studios with the stipulation that Gerard and Kate would no longer be involved and Chris Argent would take their place.

Derek had been expected to lay low, weather the video, wait for the press to move onto the next story.

Instead, he ended up making the first film the new Argent Studios ever did.

At his uncle's first press conference covering the changes they were making to the studio he announced that first film. And Derek had stood up and said: "If you want to watch me fucking a guy, fine. Just fucking pay me for it."

And then he'd just walked away.

When he'd continued to make porn, and, at first, it had seemed like some continued rebellion against everyone who judged him for the sex tape. But then he became Argent Studios' biggest star in his own right and then went on to do Classics and everyone forgot about it.

In any case, Stiles is pretty sure that that angry, carefree attitude he'd had at that press conference had impressed more fourteen year old gay guys than just him.

So Stiles says, "Yeah. What you did back then was probably more impressive than a dozen 'It Gets Better' stories. I mean, you pretty much gave gay guys permission to be angry instead of ashamed."

Derek turns to him, brow furrowed. "You're giving me way too much credit."

"I'm not," Stiles says. He chews on his lip. "You know, that first one is the only video of you I haven't seen."

Derek's lips quirk and he raises his eyebrows at him. "The only one?"

"That's not what I mean. Figure of speech," Stiles says quickly. "I mean, you've made 104 videos if you count the shorts and-- shit, can we just please pretend I didn't say any of this?"

Derek laughs out loud. Actually *laughs*. And it's almost worth the humiliation. At least they're at the campus now, and Derek is pulling over into the fire lane to let him off.

"Anyways," Stiles says loudly over Derek's laugh, as he grabs his backpack. "Thanks for the ride."

Derek shakes his head, still smiling. "See you around, Stiles."

"Right," Stiles says. "Around. See you."

 

"At least you didn't tell him about the dildo," Scott says when Stiles tells him the story over Call of Duty that night.

"Oh my god, I didn't even think of that." Stiles drops his head down into his arms. He hears his guy getting killed on-screen, but doesn't even care.

"It sounds like he didn't mind, though," Scott says over the game over music.

"He laughed at me," Stiles whines. "Laughed. I didn't even know he was capable of smiling, let alone laughing. If it hadn't been at my humiliation it would have been the most beautiful thing I ever heard."

When Stiles peeks up from his arms, Scott is giving him a strange look.

"What, dude?"

"You like him," Scott says.

"Huh? Of course I like him. I've had a crush on him since I was fourteen years old. You know that," Stiles reminds him.

"No, I mean, you like him. Derek, the guy," Scott says.

Stiles opens his mouth to deny it, but then he remembers how his laugh made him feel and says, "Fuck. I do, don't I? This is bad. This is worse than when I had that bisexual crush on Lydia when I first started."

"That was pretty bad," Scott agrees. "Though I don't think you need to call it a bisexual crush. It can just be a crush."

"Well, at least I'm not going to be seeing him again," Stiles says, and waves his hand dismissively in the air. "It'll go away."

"You've seen him three times in the past couple months," Scott reminds him. "He drove you to class today. You really think you won't see him again?"

"It was just coincidence. And he's just a nice guy," Stiles says. "Which is unfortunate because it's not going to help this crush thing. But it's not like he asked for my number or anything. Nothing's going to happen. I mean, I'm me and he's The Derek Hale."

Scott shrugs and says, "If you say so."

 

 

"All right, Danny, everything set up?" Stiles asks, then winks. "Ready to 'moderate' me?"

Danny shakes his head in exasperation but gives him a thumbs up from the video in a corner of the 20" monitor currently sitting on Stiles's desk. There's a HD cam attached to the top of it, and he's got two studio lights hidden in the corners of his room. In the middle is a big version of himself, and below it, in large font, will be the comment and the tips.

"So, about the centrifugal force demonstration on our project, I was thinking--"

'Stiles,' comes Danny's text on the monitor. 'Can we save it for when I can actually talk back?'

"But we got five minutes, might as well make the most of it," Stiles says, settling back to sit against the wall on his bed.

He's wearing his a t-shirt and jeans with a pair of transparent boxer shorts underneath that Erica had him do an actual fitting in.

He'd begged her to borrow the jeans she'd tailored but she'd told him he needed to stop procrastinating in investing in bigger sizes of his own clothes. And, well, given that with his new contract he was going to stay chubby for another year, he supposed it was worth it.

But then he'd made the mistake of telling Scott he needed new clothes, and Scott had texted Kira, so now he's sitting on his bed in the new sized-up skinny jeans she'd picked out for him. Seeing as she's one of the top directors at Argent Studios and also ridiculously nice, it's very difficult to argue with her.

He always has to remind himself of this when she drags him out shopping and he has to spend three times what he had planned.

At least she'd let him buy a couple more comfortable pants and flannels that not only buttoned without straining but covered up his tummy nicely when they were buttoned. It definitely could have been worse.

Danny still hasn't responded to him, so Stiles just sighs, jiggling a leg impatiently. He grabs a stress ball with googly eyes that he'd appropriated from Scott, who'd had gotten for free at some campus thing. He starts tossing it while he waits. He misses a catch and it rolls onto the floor just as the sixty second countdown starts on the screen.

He watches the chatroom fill up with the people who've paid a small fee to get in. It's up to 117 by the time the camera goes live. He usually barely cracks 60, but he figures this is the first time he's been in the top ten with his last film, after all.

"Heya guys," Stiles says with a grin at the camera as he scoots forward on his twin-size bed. He lets his feet dangle off the side. Webcams are half about being casual and friendly. Making friends with the audience so they'll give him tips and subscribe to his page. "How are you all doing?"

There's 'fine' and 'good' and one 'take off your clothes!'.

Stiles winks at the monitor. "Hey, octopirate, buy a guy dinner first."

Then he goes over a quick reminder of the rules, which Danny has also posted at the side. Some are general site rules about harassment and homophobic language. There's a few custom limits, Stiles has - no paddles, pain play, or BDSM in general. He gets questioned about that at least once every chat and his answer is always the truth: that he's open to it, but the first time he experiments with BDSM he wants it to be with someone he trusts, and not on camera.

"So, you veterans know what time it is," Stiles says. The room's filled up to 312 now, a pretty decent number this early. "I'm going to pretend I'm a stripper. I don't have a pole here -- at least not that kind of pole," Stiles says. "Don't give me those eye-rolling emojis now. Anyways, I'm not a tease. For every person who donates tokens, doesn't matter how many, I take off a piece of clothing. And, let's be honest, I don't have that much on right now, anyways."

Within a few seconds there are enough donations -- mostly small ones -- to get Stiles to strip ten times over.

"Eager, aren't we?" Stiles grins at the camera.

He stands up in front of the camera at an angle to get his whole body in the shot.

He shrugs off his flannel, then lifts off his shirt. He unbuttons his jeans and it strikes him that one advantage of buying clothes that fit is that he doesn't have to deal with the embarrassment of having to suck in his new belly to unbutton them.

Not that it isn't on display, or that there haven't already been a half dozen questions about his new look that he's ignored so far.

He angles his ass and arches his back to give his audience an optimal view as he takes them off. It took him many false attempts when he first started until Danny approved of his efforts to take them off in a sexy way on camera. Stiles had previously been of the opinion that there was no truly sexy way to undress from real clothes.

He leaves his transparent boxer briefs on and winks at the camera. "I guess I am a bit of a tease, since I'm gonna leave these on for now. They're kinda hot, though, right? I like them. I hate for them to go to waste so soon."

Stiles sits back down on the edge of the bed and leans backward on his hands to better show off his body. "Anyways, I can tell from all the questions that half of you are curious about my new look. I'm going to assume that the other half of you don't have HD video."

Stiles thinks, not for the first time, that he could really use a laugh track.

"This was a bit of an experiment," Stiles says. He's been thinking about what Derek had told him. That he'd do better with some confidence in his new look. And, right now, he's not Stiles Stilinski, he's Dylan Banks, which makes it a lot easier to pretend that he does. So he runs a hand up his slightly softer thighs, his padded hips, as he talks. "Pretty much everyone in our studio is crazy fit, right? And, I won't lie, being surrounded by hot guys everywhere you look is part of my secret to stamina. Don't look at me like that, I knew that question was coming up at some point. I'll divulge my other secrets later."

He grins and strokes his fingers up the rounded side of his small belly. "But we wanted to try something different. Go for the look of a soft young twink. A twink new to the gay scene, so new that no one's told him he's supposed to work out three hours a day in order to be hot."

Stiles's fingers reach one of his nipples and he gives it a tweak, and gives an exaggerated moan. Then, as he lets his hand slide down over the curve of his stomach, there's a ching from the computer, indicating a large tip. He glances at the screen and his eyes widen.

"Fuck, alphawolf, that comment is hot. And kind. And really hot," Stiles says with a grin. Then he stands up and turns around, arches his back as he balances his hands on the bed so his ass is on display.

There's a number of chings after that. He turns his head and winks at the camera again. "So we know what alphawolf thinks, what about the rest of you guys? I think I've filled out in a few of the right places, wouldn't you agree?"

He wiggles his ass in emphasis and hears one, two, three more chings.

 

"Seriously, dude? Alphawolf?" Stiles says when he gets out of the bathroom, now showered and in pajama pants and an oversized old shirt that, admittedly, isn't quite as oversized as it used to be.

"What?" Scott asks, looking up from his laptop on the couch.

"I appreciate the effort at boosting my confidence in the new look, dude, but you could have done it with a little more subtelty," Stiles says. Then frowns. "And a lot less money."

"What are you talking about?"

"My webcam?"

"So it went well? Awesome!" Scott grins.

"Well, yeah, but -- wait, you weren't alphawolf?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about, Stiles," Scott says.

"Huh," Stiles says. He'd just assumed, since Scott's alter ego was Tyler Wolf. Alphawolf had only made a few comments but they all trended the line perfectly between hot and going too far. Starting from the beginning, the sheer admiration in his comments helped give him confidence he needed to do a successful webcame in his chubbier figure. As he's learned from the past, his usual self-deprecation does not make money. He needs to be confident Dylan Banks.

Plus alphawolf was the top donator to win Stiles calling his name when he came. If he kept showing up, it would certainly do good things for his ego, let alone his bank account.

"Want to get pizza?" Stiles asks, flopping down on the thrift store couch next to Scott.

Scott glances over at him with a smirk. "Still working on your figure?"

"Hey, I burned a lot of calories just now. I need to make up the deficit," Stiles says with a grin. He gives the soft roundness of his stomach a pat, feeling more free in his body after that session. Even aside from alphawolf, the majority of the comments had been admiring, and positive feedback helps. Positive feedback in the form of generous tips helps even more.

"Pepperoni and sausage," Scott says, turning back to his laptop.

Stiles jumps up to grab his phone. He calls in their order as he rummages through the fridge for a Mountain Dew.

When he comes back to the living room, laptop in hand, Scott's texting on his phone.

"How's Isaac doing?" Stiles asks with a smirk.

Scott frowns at him. "How did you know I was texting Isaac?"

"You got that 'I'm texting Isaac' look on your face," Stiles says, settling in beside him on the couch again.

"I have an 'I'm texting Isaac' look?" Scott raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you get a smile and a little frown at the same time," Stiles says. "Like you're happy but you're overthinking things."

Scott drops his phone down and sighs. "We both filmed 'It Gets Better' today. I thought I had it bad with my dad leaving when I came out, but Isaac's had a really shitty life."

"Huh, that sucks," Stiles says.

He's done a few shoots with Isaac. He doesn't have the whole friendly smiling top thing going on that Scott does. When he's topping, he's unrelenting but not as dominant as a lot of the others.

"Seems like he made it out okay," Stiles says.

"Yeah," Scott says, getting a dreamy smile on his face. "He's amazing."

 

It happens to be Isaac Lahey who Stiles is scheduled to make a short with a week later. Stiles may or may not lord that over Scott, who hasn't filmed with him in over a year.

There's no plot, just a blowjob and a fuck in a fake living room. Stiles is surprised when Isaac takes him aside to discuss it before they start filming.

But right now there's an actual concerned look in Isaac's blue eyes as he says, “Peter told me to make sure I emphasize your figure. He said he wants good shots of you looking softer.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Peter,” Stiles says with a shrug.

“It just doesn’t seem right that to make a big deal out of it, though,” Isaac tells him earnestly. “People gain weight all the time. It’s normal. You look fine.”

Stiles stares at him, taken aback. He hasn’t heard Isaac say this many words at once that weren’t laced in sarcasm. He wonders if he’s getting a glimpse of the guy that Scott raves about so much.

“Thanks, man, but I’m okay with it,” Stiles finally says. He lays a hand on his stomach, the little roundness pushes back against his hand. “I mean, Peter’s the one who had me gain most of this in the first place.”

“He was?”

“It’s my thing, now, apparently. It's even in my contract.” Stiles shrugs. “And my last film did a hell of a lot better than anything I’ve made before, so I guess it can’t be all bad.”

“Well, okay. Good.” Isaac rubs the back of his neck. Then he asks, less casually than he probably means it to come out, “So, how’s Scott doing lately?”


	4. Chapter 4

"Anyone mind if I have the last piece?" Stiles asks as he's already pulling the last of the pizza from the box they're sharing.

"You're going to eat it whether we say yes or not, aren't you?" Danny says from his seat on Stiles's couch.

"Hey, I have to keep my figure," Stiles says. Despite his bluster, he notices that his shirt is riding up again and quickly tugs it back down. Not only is laundry day overdue, but he's more filled out that usual from all the pizza and various caffeinated drinks tonight. He wishes he had worn a hoodie, but his last clean one had been victim to a spill in the lab -- which was only forty-seven percent his own fault, by the way, no matter what his TA says.

Sure, he's slowly getting more used to and less self-conscious about his new weight, but he still isn't eager to show it off. Except in webcams, apparently. He'd been scheduled another one for last night since his last had done so well. He's starting to get used to phrases like 'cute' describing his belly and 'hot' describing his ass, and occasionally vice versa. Thinking about alphawolf's comments still makes him feel flushed. Last night, he'd typed that he'd like to worship him. And when Stiles prompted him on how exactly how... well, let's just say by the end, Stiles had been willing to call his name when he came even without his very generous tip for the honor. It's strange. He's not used to getting turned on by his commenters.

"It's better you have it than I get tempted." Allison, who is sitting beside him on the floor, draws him out from his fantasies. She has pretty dimples that remind him of the dimples he'd seen on Derek's cheeks that one time he'd seen him really smile. And laugh at him, but who's counting.

"Dude, you had like one and a half slices," Stiles reminds her. She'd given the other half of her second slice to Stiles.

"Can we get back to our project?" Danny cuts in. He turns around his laptop so they can see the screen. "I was playing around with this graphing program, and I was thinking about how we could illustrate the displacements--"

He's cut off by the front door squeaking and Scott steps in with the proclamation, "Hey everyone, I brought reinforcements for you in the form of --"

The six-pack of cheap beer dangles from his hand as he trails off and his eyes widen.

"Allison?" he says.

Allison is staring back at him with equally wide eyes.

"Do you guys know each other?" Stiles asks.

"We used to," Allison says quietly.

"You didn't tell me Allison was in your group," Scott says accusingly.

"Uh, yeah, I'm pretty sure I've mentioned Danny and Allison."

Stiles stands up, adjusts his shirt so it's not riding up again, and grabs one of the cans hanging limp from Scott's hand. He offers it to Allison, who shakes her head, then tosses it to Danny. He takes another for himself.

"You didn't tell me it was Allison Argent," Scott emphasizes.

"Uh, does that matter?"

"We knew each other in high school," Allison says, which doesn't at all explain the weirdness. Unless she was that girl Scott said that he'd dated that--

"She's the girl who made you realize that you were gay!" Stiles says in realization. He gets a sharp look from Scott and waves his hand, looking back at Allison. He adds, "Not in a bad way. You were probably doing him a service saving him from years of repression."

"Stiles, seriously?" Scott looks pained. He still hasn't moved out of the doorway. "Allison Argent?"

"What? It's a common last name," Stiles says. Then glances over at Allison, whose eyes have gotten ever wider. "... or not. Wait. You're Chris Argent's daughter?"

"Scott, do you have to do this?" Allison asks, jumping to her feet. Her eyes are actually getting glassy, even as she folds her arms and starts to get an angry tone to her voice. "You know I don't have any part of that world. And I don't want to. Why would you try out me in front of my friends?"

"Sorry," Scott says helplessly, glancing at Stiles as if asking for backup. Stiles would be happy to back up his bro, except he doesn't know what he wants backup for. "I just think you guys need to know you all are."

"And who are we all, Scott?" Allison demands.

"Stiles is right, Allison is from the same Argent family that--" Scott starts, but gets cut off.

"Look I may be an Argent but I have no interest in being part of a business that takes advantage of eighteen year old kids." Allison glares at Scott.

"Hey, I resent that," Stiles protests over a gulp of beer. "No one's taking advantage of me. And I was nineteen, anyways, when I started."

Allison turns to him, mouth open, then glares back at Scott. "You recruited Stiles?"

Stiles says quickly, "No way. I didn't meet Scott til I was on set. And don't look at me like that. We didn't work together. Oh, god. That would be like incest. He's my brother from another mother, obviously." He notes Scott's pained smile, and quickly continues. "Danny recruited me."

"Danny?" Allison asks, turning to him, voice breaking. "You, too?"

"I do tech support," Danny says neutrally.

"Yeah, he just does tech support. But when we hooked up, he was weak to my stupendous stamina," Stiles says with a wink at him.

Danny groans. "Must you keep bringing that up?"

"Did you know who I was, too?" Allison asks Danny.

Danny shrugs. "I figured it didn't matter."

Allison shakes her head and starts shoving her laptop and papers into her bag.

"Allison, don't go," Stiles says. "No one cares who your family is."

"I care," Allison says

"I'm sorry." But Scott's apology goes unacknowledged as Allison brushes past him, out the door.

 

The weeks before finals, especially with the extra credits Stiles is taking to graduate early, is a mess of studying and adderall and essays and caffeine and libraries and awkwardly finishing his group project and drilling bio-availability into his head.

At least he has the weeks off from having to film. Lydia is surprisingly accommodating in the scheduling for her talent that are in school, as long as they're otherwise reliable.

And the weight doesn't even seem like such a big deal anymore. His reflection in the mirror no longer surprises him. And he’s a lot more comfortable now since he invested in a new wardrobe. It's not like he has time to spare brooding over his thicker waistline, anyways.

Three nights before his first final, Stiles is leaving the coffee shop, clutching an espresso and muttering pH values under his breath when he slams into a large, solid body.

A strong hand catches him by the elbow, and another covers Stiles’s hand to steady his coffee up.

“Shit, sorry!” Stiles blurts out. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I was -– wait, Derek?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, lips twitching. “I think I’m the one who should be asking you if you’re okay.”

“What? No. I’m fine. Thankfully you have superior reflexes to mine,” Stiles says. "But, dude, I could have burned you. You'd have had to get skin grafts. You'd never work again."

He realizes as the words come out that they are exactly the wrong ones. Not when Derek's parents and two younger siblings burned to death in a car fire.

"Um, I mean, I'm sorry, thanks for catching me," Stiles says.

He glances up and down at Derek. He's not wearing his usual black leather jacket and he looks amazing in a black v-neck that’s hugging his biceps just right. They’re standing close enough that Stiles can him. He smells amazing. That is not Axe body spray he's wearing. Stiles wants to lean in closer, wrap that smell around himself. And maybe wrap those muscles around himself, while he's at it.

“You’re shaking,” Derek cuts through Stiles's daydream. His hand is still covering Stiles’s as if he's still worried he'll spill the cup. Stiles supposes the fear is not unjustified, but, more importantly, his hand his warm and broader then Stiles's and he would really like to hold hands right now. He’d give up sex forever – professional and recreational – just to have Derek hold his hand.

That might be a hyperbole.

“Stiles?” Derek says, starting to look worried as he tugs Stiles away from the doors other patrons can pass through. Stiles notices the double take one of the guys who's leaving does upon seeing Derek.

“Fine. I’m fine. Just maybe a little too much caffeine,” Stiles says quickly, then points out the glass doors. “And I think that guy just recognized you.”

Derek seems unconcerned about that. Instead, he frowns down at their joined hands. “This cup still feels full.”

“Uh, yeah, well, it’s not exactly my first triple shot espresso of the day. Obviously,” Stiles says with a grin. “Finals, am I right?”

“Forensics and chemistry what else?" he asks.

“You remember that?” Stiles stares at him.

“Of course,” Derek says. Even though there’s really no ‘of course’ about it when Stiles is still stuck on the fact that Derek keeps remembering his name.

Derek's other hand, the one not helping steady his cup, goes to Stiles's back and rubs circles comfortingly through his t-shirt. It is actually calming. And, maybe, Stiles can admit he needs to be calmed.

Derek is also looking at him intently, as if waiting for an answer to a question that -- oh, yes, he did ask a question.

"I'm also taking mechanical physics and calculus with analytic geometry," Stiles says. "Because apparently I am insane. And I don't even know if the extra credits are worth the effort to graduate a semester early."

"Why are you graduating early?" Derek asks, hand still on his back.

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't even know anymore. I thought it would save money but I'm making enough right now. Clearly my ability at long-term judgment is due to pissing off a vengeful god in a past life."

“You sound pretty confident you haven’t done anything in this life,” Derek points out, lips twitching.

Stiles barks a surprised laugh. “What are you talking about? I am a saint.”

“Sure,” Derek drawls, giving his side a squeeze. He holds up Stiles’s coffee cup – and, hey, how had he gotten it out of his hand? – and tells him, “I’m confiscating this.”

“But I need it,” Stiles protests, making a half-hearted swipe for it.

Derek holds the cup away from him, which shouldn't be possible because according to the Argent Studios website and the fact that they're standing eye to eye right now, he's only an inch taller.

"When’s the last time you slept?” Derek asks. "You're not looking so hot."

“You wound me.” Stiles claps a hand to his chest and mimes falling to the ground, luckily without actually falling.

Derek just raises an eyebrow and tosses his cup into the trash.

“Hey!” Stiles exclaims.

“I’ll buy you another one another day. Tonight, you’re going to go home and get some sleep,” Derek says firmly. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“That’s what she said.”

“What?”

“Uh, never mind.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe you do have a point. A tiny little point.”

“Good luck on your exams, Stiles,” Derek says as he steers him out the door of the cafe with the hand on his back.

 

"Hey, dad. Yeah, this semester was a little insane," Stiles says. And surreal, he doesn't add. "I got my fingers crossed for the final grades but I don't see why I have to wait two more days for them. College is cruel. But the internship at the downtown crime lab starts next week, so that's kind of awesome."

"More useful than your other job, that's for sure," his father says. Stiles barely stops himself from choking.

"Hey, don't bash Crawford & Sowder, attorneys at law. They've gotten me through college so far without any loans," Stiles says. Stiles can hear papers shuffle on the other end of the line.

His father sighs. "You're going back to work there in the fall, aren't you?"

"It's not as bad as you're thinking." Stiles should probably come up with a cover story his father could be more proud of than clerical work. But anything involving law enforcement is out, since his father has contacts everywhere.

"Stiles--"

"It's not, I swear. And it's not even that many hours," Stiles says.

"Fine, I'll drop it for now," his father says. Stiles doesn't doubt that the topic's coming up yet again. But he can't even imagine what these conversations would be like if he knew the truth. He'd probably get dragged back to Beacon Hills by his ear.

And Stiles has delicate ears.

 

The next week, on the metro to Argent Studios for a short with Jackson, Stiles gets the email that grades are out. He pulls up his school’s web portal on his phone and curses the lack of cell connection on the metro.

Once he's back above ground, though, he quickly pulls up his web browser. Waits for it to load. Clicks on grades. Waits. Logs in. Chews his thumbnail. And...

Thanks the vengeful gods who are not as vengeful as previously thought.

Stiles is still grinning as he heads to wardrobe. He’s lost in grateful thoughts about never having to take any form of calculus or sit through any more awkward physics group project meetings again, when he hears Peter saying his name.

“Hey there, what’s up?” Stiles bounces on his heels.

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought we had an understanding, Mr Stilinski.”

“An understanding?” Stiles repeats.

Peter looks him up and down disapprovingly. It gives Stiles a distinct sense of deja vu. At least Lydia's not here.

“What is it?” Stiles demands.

“You lost weight.”

“Huh?” He glances down at himself again. He hasn’t stepped back on his scale since he met his weight goal for The Locker Room. But, okay, maybe his clothes are feeling a little extra comfortable right now. But anyone else who'd been carrying an extra twenty pounds would be happy about that. He sighs. “Not intentionally.”

“I would hope not,” Peter says. “Choosing to trim down rather than keeping the figure that’s finally giving you a career would be a rather poor business decision.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, finals just ended -- I passed them all, by the way, flying colors, thank you for asking. I’ve probably just been having too much coffee and not enough food.”

Peter raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“And so maybe I’ve lost some weight, but no way it’s more than a couple pounds.” Stiles pulls up his t-shirt, keeps his abdominal muscles as relaxed as possible and swallows his pride as he says, “Look at all this baby fat, see?"

“All right, Mr Stilinski.” Peter shakes his head. “Just make sure to be at your previous weight before your next film.”

"Yes, sir," Stiles says.

 

Gaining the weight back doesn’t end up being that hard at all. Besides the ever-available donuts (his father’s sheriff station is not the only department in the country that lives up to that stereotype, apparently), there’s a pizza-by-the-slice shop, a burrito stand and an ice cream shop on the walk back from the crime lab to his apartment.

Stiles earns a curt nod of approval from Peter when he shows up to his next film. He'd weighed himself when he got back to his apartment after his last short and he’d been 166 pounds. Now, he’s back up to 171.

He's filming with Boyd today and Erica, as she dresses him in a school uniform, gives him salacious looks, and even more salacious teasing. This is why Stiles doesn't like working with Boyd. He swears Erica gets off on it.

Nothing against the guy, though. Stiles respects the ability to thrust with that much power for what feels like hours on end. Even if Stiles's ass doesn't always appreciate it the next day.

As Stiles proceeds to deep throat Erica's boyfriend he tries not to think about Erica watching this later. And then, as her boyfriend proceeds to fuck him over an extraordinary sturdy classroom desk, he thinks, pettily, that Erica, when she sees this, will be jealous that she doesn't have a desk this sturdy at home.

Finstock makes them film far more cuts than necessary, in Stiles's opinion. He swears that he's just taking advantage of his and Boyd's matching stamina for no good reason.

When Finstock finally yells 'That's a wrap', Stiles exhales in deep relief. He shrugs his boxers back on for the walk back to wardrobe. He's wiping his brow as he walks off set, sweaty with real sweat, not the glycerin kind, when he lets out a scream. No, not a scream. A yelp. No. A manly yell.

Because there is Derek Hale, leaning against the edge of the missing third of the set wall, smirking at him.

"Oh, hey dude, what brings you here?" Stiles asks, way belatedly trying to take on an unaffected pose. It's not unusual for the other actors to look in on whatever else is filming. Stiles has gotten some good techniques that way. But it is unusual for Derek Hale to look in one one of Stiles's films.

And, by unusual, Stiles means unheard of.

"How did your finals go?" Derek asks.

"Oh! Uh, good. Passed with flying colors," Stiles says. He gestures a hand. "Rainbow colors. Because, you know, rainbow? Appropriate, right?"

Derek gives him an indulgent look.

"So." Stiles looks Derek up and down, taking in the cowboy costume that's going to give him a whole new genre to fantasize about Derek in. "I gotta say, you're killing it in those chaps, dude. But, and correct me if I'm wrong here, but, in porn, I think they're generally worn without jeans underneath."

Derek glances down at himself and looks like he's -- no, that is definitely just the studio lighting making it look like he's blushing.

"We're filming a scene for The Lawman today," he says.

"It's okay, you have a thing for spurs and properly worn chaps. I'm only judging your lack of cowboy hat right now."

"Very funny," Derek deadpans.

And then there's a moment of silence between them that stretches long enough to start to get awkward. So Stiles starts to say, "So I should probably get--"

"I owe you coffee," Derek says quickly.

Stiles thinks back on that night before finals and says, "No, dude. Totally fine. I think you saved me from a heart attack, or at least a third night in a row without sleep."

"Still," Derek says, looking like he's struggling with the words for some reason. "I'd like to make it up to you. We're going to wrap for the day in a few minutes. What are you doing after this?"

"I have to get back downtown for my internship. My boss at the crime lab gave me the afternoon off -- I told them I had a potentially tragic doctor's appointment -- as long as I came back to work the evening."

"I see," Derek says, words coming out oddly stilted. "So you're interning at the crime lab?"

"Yeah, dude, it's awesome!" And, as they walk over to the north wardrobe, Stiles proceeds to tell him about the stomach contents they'd spent the day before analyzing for flunitrazepam. By the time they make it back to the trailer, Stiles takes in Derek's queasy expression and instantly regrets his whole life.

"Anyways," Stiles says quickly. "See you around?"

"See you, Stiles," Derek says. He pauses and just looks at him for a strange moment, and then turns abruptly to head in the other direction.

 

That evening finds Stiles repeatedly banging his forehead on the kitchen table.

"Hey, hey," Scott says, upon finding him like that. "Stop that."

Stiles bangs his forehead yet again on the table for emphasis, and then says, "Only if you get me a beer."

Which earns him a cold beer can his hand, at least. Stiles sits up and sighs morosely as he flips the tab on the can.

"What's going on?" Scott asks.

"So you know that guy I might, hypothetically, have a teeny tiny crush on?" Stiles asks.

"You mean the same Derek Hale who's been your desktop background for six years?"

"Maybe," Stiles says. He takes a long sip of the beer. "So he might have asked me to get coffee with him today."

"Dude, that's great!" Scott says with a grin.

"And I accidentally said no."

Scott stares at him for a long moment. "Wait. What?"

"I know," Stiles whines and lets his head drop to the table again. "Remember how he threw away my triple espresso that night?"

"The night you were still bouncing off the walls until four in the morning?" Scott says. "Yes, vaguely."

"Well, he said he owed me a new one. It wasn't like it was a date or anything."

"Sure." Scott hands Stiles another beer.

"He's probably just one of those honorable type of people who can't stand owing anyone anything. Even an unwise triple espresso."

"Probably," Scott says neutrally, sitting down next to him with his own beer.

"But I still could have made use of it," Stiles says. "It was time in which I could have charmed him with something other than more stories about digging through digested stomach contents."

Scott wrinkles his nose. "How was that even an option for a conversation topic? And, wait -- did you say more stories about stomach contents?"

"Uh, no?"

"Because that seems to imply that you already told him a story about that."

"Um." Stiles bites his lip. "I think I need another beer."

 

The Good Boys Club (Orion/Dylan Banks) debuts at number 8.

Stiles doesn't run into Derek again that summer. But he squeezes in two more shorts between his hours at the crime lab (a twins Shane/Blaine/Dylan Banks threesome and yet another Drake Colton/Dylan Banks).

He opens his first ever savings account and transfers the extra royalties into it.

And he keeps up his diet of delicious street food. Near the end of the summer, his clothes are getting snug and when he steps on the scale, it's edging on the high end of the weight on his contract. He calls that a success.

One day, he catches a lab tech staring at where his button-down strains just slightly over his middle. Stiles can’t even blame him for it. He'd bought it when he'd apparently been almost ten pounds lighter. Ten pounds in less than two months is probably a lot to put on. And it’s not like Stiles can advertise that it was intentional.

So he just pats his little belly and says, with half-faked embarrassment, “Not used to all the donuts, I guess.”

The guy laughs good-naturedly from his lab bench and says, “I hear you, man. My wife’s been trying to put me on a diet for a while now, but they’re hard to resist.”

The tech's a couple years out of college, and, now that Stiles is paying attention, is definitely chubbier than Stiles is. Stiles is usually surrounded by hard-bodied porn stars and apparently forgot that people don’t have to be playing soft young twinks in moderately well-selling gay porn to be less than svelte.

 

It happens on one of the last days of his internship. He's at the corner store trying to find a carton of milk that hasn't expired when the rack of tabloids catches his eye.

DEREK HALE CAUGHT IN SORDID GAY AFFAIR WITH ACTOR

INFAMOUS HALE HEIR OUT AND ABOUT WITH NEW BOYFRIEND

RYAN LYLE SEDUCED BY HALE HEIR TURNED PORNSTAR: LYLE'S FAMILY SPEAKS OUT

Stiles doesn't buy any of the tabloids. Instead, he googles "Derek Hale" and "Ryan Lyle" later that night.

Scott confiscates his laptop when he realizes what Stiles is doing, but not before he's read about how the couple, who have been speculated to be dating all summer, were caught making out outside of the Hall Street Theatre.

It's a good thing Stiles's crush on Derek had only been hypothetical.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually try to respond to all the comments before posting a new chapter, but decided I've left this fic on the cliffhanger end of chapter 4 for long enough. But thank you all so much for your lovely comments and kudos, it's you all who inspired me to dig into this again. :)

 

"You must be Stiles."

Stiles glances up from his phone where he and Scott are in a meme contest. He's killing time since he was early for filming his office short. He hasn't seen the guy in front of him before. He has brown upswept hair and a slim-fitted suit that shows off his shoulders and biceps that almost, not quite, compete with Derek's.

"That's me," Stiles says.

"Theo Raekin," the guy says, sticking out his hand for Stiles to shake.

"Nice to meet you, dude," Stiles says. So he's the new guy Stiles is working with today. "You're the guy recruited from the Calaveras?"

"Yeah," he says with a self-effacing smile. "This is actually my first time here."

"Don't worry about it. It'll be fine. I'm assuming you know how to fuck and there's only like six lines of plot here, anyways," Stiles says. He starts to put his phone in his pocket, before remembering that these are his costume slacks, and they're too fitted to fit a phone in the pockets. The suit's actually a lot nicer than anything Stiles owns. It was Sydney dressing him today. Erica would never let him, but she's out with the stomach flu and he wonders if Sydney would be nice enough to let him take it home.

"Ah, but I have to act like your boss," Theo is saying with a teasing smile. "Think you can handle that?"

Stiles laughs. "Yeah, pretty sure I can."

Theo's smile turns into an assessing look as he looks Stiles up and down.

"They were talking about you over at the Calaveras. Word was you were Argent's new 'soft twink' experiment," he says.

"Uh, yeah, that's me. All in support of scientific experiments." Stiles says lightly, though he can't help but adjust his button-down shirt over his middle. He's not sure he likes being talked about over there. He's sure they're not saying anything flattering about his new look. But he's right where Peter wants him. He weighs himself twice a week now, not wanting a repeat of his accidental weight loss during last year's finals, and he was 170.5 pounds yesterday.

"You know, I watched some of your old stuff on the website last night," Theo says. "You were really hot before."

Stiles isn't sure what his expression shows, but it makes Theo rapidly backtrack.

"Not that you're not hot now!" he says quickly, though Stiles catches him looking down at his stomach, where the curve of it is still obvious under his shirt. "You just look a lot different now. I bet you're looking forward to when they let you lose the thirty pounds."

Stiles crosses his arms over himself. "These *twenty* pounds have gotten all my films in the top ten. I'm not exactly complaining."

Theo gives him a conciliatory smile and says, "That's good, then. I am looking forward to working with you, Stiles."

Stiles frowns after him as he watches Theo walk back over to the set. He runs a hand through his hair before he remembers he's undoing Sydney's styling and carefully smooths it back down. He wonders if it's too late to tell Lydia he doesn't want to work with Theo. She's made it clear she doesn't give a shit if people *want to* work with specific actors, but she always respects requests *not* to work with someone, no questions asked.

But then maybe Theo's just nervous since it's his first short. Stiles knows a thing or two about putting his foot in his mouth when his nerves get the better of him.

So he just sighs and follows Theo over to the set, which is three-quarters of an executive's office. Stiles thinks he's supposed to be Theo's intern or something. The six lines of dialogue weren't exactly elucidating and the characters were just named 'Top' and 'Bottom'.

He gets in place by the off-set office doorway. One of the assistants comes up and straightens his suit for him and then uses a little more gel in this hair.

"Raekin, get into place!" Finstock bellows through his director's megaphone. "No, behind the desk. No. The other behind! There. All right, Bilinski, you ready?"

"Never been readier," he calls, giving him a thumbs up.

"Fine," Finstock says. And then, into his megaphone, yells a far too loud "Action!"

Stiles knocks on the door, hears a 'come in'. And steps inside, and licking his lips as he says, "I heard you wanted to see me, sir?"

 

The next day, after his CSI lecture, Stiles spots Allison sitting alone with a salad in the North Hall cafeteria.

He hesitate, but then walks over to her with his sandwich, chips, brownie and large soda. When she sees him, she gives him an inscrutable look. He hasn't seen her since they finished their group project and things have still been awkward.

But Stiles is the king of awkward, so he asks, already halfway into the seat across from her, "Okay if I sit here?"

"Sure," she says, though her posture stiffens. "How are you doing, Stiles?"

"Good," he says. He opens his mouth to take a large bite of his sandwich and his jaw pops with a sharp pain. He massages his TMJ as he chews. "Actually working with Danny again on a project for computer forensics. He acts like he doesn't like me, but I know the truth."

Allison gives him a small smile, then shakes her head. "I'm sorry about last year. How I treated you when I learned about your job."

Stiles cocks his head. "You didn't do anything wrong. We kind of ambushed you that night."

"Scott ambushed me," she corrects him.

"Well, you know Scott," Stiles shrugs. "He can't resist doing what he thinks is right."

Allison gives him a weak smile as she fiddles with the cap of her water bottle. "I was so mad at my father for getting Scott a job there."

"He's happy with it, though," Stiles says. He pulls open his bag of chips and pops one in his mouth.

"I just can't think about the business without thinking about what my aunt Kate did to Derek Hale. I was only fifteen, but I remember when it all came out. We used to be close, you know? I still feel guilty. I mean, they were dating and--"

"They were dating?" Stiles splutters. "Derek Hale was dating Kate Argent?"

Allison frowns at him. "I thought everyone knew that."

"Dude, I am the biggest Derek Hale aficionado that has ever existed and I didn't know that," Stiles says. He hadn't even known Derek was into women. "Wait, so -- she caught him cheating on her? And that was her revenge? I mean, I'm not saying it's not still a shitty thing to do, but--"

"No," Allison says emphatically. "I don't think I should say any more, but it wasn't Derek's fault at all. He didn't do anything wrong."

There's a moment of silence in which Allison continues to fiddle with her water bottle. Stiles stuffs his mouth with his brownie to prevent himself from demanding that she tell him more. He is trying to make things okay with Allison right now, he reminds himself.

Finally Stiles swallows and says, "Well, Argent Studios isn't all sleazy anymore. You know that, right? They even filmed an 'It Gets Better' series. Scott did one about his father, you know."

Allison looks at him sharply. "That's pretty low using that to promote themselves."

"I don't think it's like that," Stiles says. "Trust me, is no male even slightly to the right of the Kinsey Scale who doesn't watch enough porn to know who Argent Studios are. They don't need promotion."

Allison doesn't say anything, but doesn't look convinced, either.

"Anyways," Stiles continues, because the mood is in desperate need of being lightened. "I'm not being taken advantage of. I like guys, I like sex. Like yesterday, I was doing a short with a new guy with a nine inch cock, a thick nine inches. My jaw still hurts from all the angles they insisted on filming of me blowing him. They made me roll a condom on with my mouth three times." He finds himself massaging the angle of his jaw again just thinking about it. "But he was big enough that he couldn't miss my prostate if he tried, which kind of made up for it."

Allison is looking at him, cringing. Stiles thinks about what he just said.

"Too much?"

"A little," she admits. Then she laughs, dimples showing. "What a weird job you have. And you can talk about it just like you're complaining about any other job."

Stiles shrugs. "It is like any other job. I don't mind the sex. I like the sex. I don't even mind the weight thing that much. And it pays well which means I have more time to study. I don't have to spend all my free time doing work-study at the bookstore or be a bicycle pizza guy."

Allison looks like she doesn't know what to say to that.

"Hey!" Stiles exclaims suddenly. "Come clubbing with us tonight!"

"What?"

"It'll be fun, I promise," Stiles says with a wink. "We're going to The Vault. I need a token straight friend, anyways."

Allison shakes her head, but her lips are curved up and her dimples are showing. "Are you asking me to be your token straight friend?"

 

 

  
"It's too tight," Stiles complains, looking in the mirror with a grimace.

"It's exactly right," Kira says from the video chat on his laptop. "Remember I was the one who picked it for you."

"I try to block out the trauma of all shopping trips from my mind," Stiles tells her with a sigh. He fiddles with the hem of the shirt and turns to look at the side view in the mirror he nailed up on the wall. He tries to suck in his stomach and it looks a little better, but it's not like his abs have gotten much workout lately and he's not going to be able to maintain that all night. He relaxes and gives the soft curve of his belly a poke.

"Stiles!" Kira exclaims from the laptop speaker. "Be nice to your tummy."

Stiles glances over at her, narrowing his eyes. "Are you drunk already?"

"No," she says, but giggles which gives him the answer he needs. He rolls his eyes.

"If you were going to pre-game you could have come over here, you know," Stiles tells her.

"I told you, my girlfriend's meeting me here," Kira says, big smile on her face. She takes a drink of something clear that makes her winkle her nose adorably.

"You're missing out. Just ask Scott, I make a mean jello shot," Stiles says, and downs one of the shots he has on top of his cluttered dresser.

Then he glances back at the mirror and picks at the glittered white shirt he's got on over a pair of very tight skinny jeans.

"And, anyways, why couldn't we have gotten this shirt in black? Isn't black supposed to be slimming?"

"Because we're not trying to hide your cute figure," Kira says, rolling her eyes but still smiling. "We're showing you off."

Stiles sighs. "You realize my chances of getting laid tonight were slim already, right?"

"Stiles," Kira says with a giggle. "You are literally a pornstar. I don't think that's going to be a problem. And you want to look good if this guy you have a crush on is there tonight, right?"

"What? I don't have a crush! Who told you that? Was it Scott?" Stiles demands.

Kira raises an eyebrow as she takes another sip of her own drink on the laptop screen.

"I mean," Stiles continues. "Maybe I once did have a little crush on someone. But I knew it wasn't going to happen and I'm over it now, completely over it."

He's spent the last months trying his best not to think about Derek and his "up and coming actor" boyfriend.

"Sure you are, Stiles," Kira says, just as Stiles hears knocking at the apartment door. Scott and Isaac's voices in the background stop and then Stiles hears a 'Hey, Allison! You made it'.

Stiles glances at his laptop and warns Kira, "We're not done here," and then rushes out to the living room before Scott can say anything to ruin the mood again.

"Allison!" Stiles calls. Isaac is slouched down on the couch with a beer, long legs going halfway across the room and trips over them. It only earns him a raised eyebrow. Then slides to a halt as close to between Allison and Scott as he can get.

"Hi, Stiles," Allison says, returning Stiles's enthusiastic hug. "Thanks for having me."

"You look really nice," Scott says sincerely.

"Oh, thanks," Allison says. She's wearing a short skirt and dark tights and her hair is down and curled. "I got the Proctor boots for my birthday."

Stiles is assuming that means it's a fashionable brand and not hand-me-downs from one of their TA's. As he half-listens to Scott introduce her to Isaac, he decides cannot let her and Kira ever meet.

So, naturally, he hears from his bedroom: "Who is that? Tell her to come here now!"

Stiles rubs his eyes and sees Allison looking at him questioningly.

"That's just Scott's friend," Stiles says.

"Hey, she's your friend, too," Scott says, punching his shoulder.

"Not at the moment," Stiles says darkly.

Allison laughs and says, "I do need to meet her, then."

"All right, all right," Stiles says with a sigh. As they pass the kitchen table, he hands her two jello shots, one for each hand, and swallows one down himself before leading her into his bedroom.

"Allison, this is Kira." Stiles gestures to the monitor. "She's my current arch nemesis. Kira, this is Allison, my token straight friend."

Kira is giggling. "About time you got one of those." Then she says, "Oh my god! You're Allison Argent."

Allison startles next to him.

"Your picture is on your dad's desk," Kira says. "You're the only thing he ever talks about."

Allison's mouth opens but she doesn't say anything, and Kira continues, obviously oblivious to the tension on the other side of the video chat.

"Please tell Stiles he looks hot," Kira is saying.

Stiles narrows his eyes and says, "Allison, please tell Kira that all my clothes are too tight."

That seems to shake Allison out of her surprised stupor. She shakes her head and turns to Stiles.

"Turn around for me." She gestures at him.

Stiles sighs, but complies, and says, "See?"

"Very nice jeans," Allison says, and then looks at the computer screen. "I like it. And we're going clubbing, you're supposed to look hot, not comfortable."

Stiles sighs.

"See, Stiles, just think, if your crush is there tonight--"

"For the seventy-sixth time, there is no crush," Stiles cuts her off. He yells out his door, "I hate you, Scott!"

"Love you too, man," Scott calls back from the living room.

Allison's looking at him, head tilted and a sparkle in her eyes. She asks, "Who is it?"

"Definitely no one who's going to be there tonight," Stiles says.

"How do you know that?" Kira asks.

Stiles narrows his eyes at her.

"I'm going to need details, Stiles," Allison says, giving him an all-too-pretty smirk.

Stiles rolls his eyes to the ceiling for patience. It doesn't come. "Look, I'm getting over him, okay? We don't need to talk about it because it's never gonna happen for a bajillion reasons. The first reason is that he already has a boyfriend."

"What?" Kira frowns from the screen. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, pretty sure about that one," Stiles says. "But it's all right. All I want to do is get laid by *someone*, *anyone* tonight, anyways. Which is why I'd like to not look like someone who would have been hotter twenty pounds ago."

He's thinking about what Theo said. Derek probably thinks the same thing, if he thinks about him at all. He was just too polite to say anything other than 'You look good'.

"Stiles!" Kira exclaims. "I thought we agreed no self-fat-shaming allowed. Anyone who's worth it -- especially your crush -- would think you look beautiful the way you are."

"I agree," Allison says.

Kira turns away from the camera, momentarily out and then back in view. "Hey, that's my date at the door. Allison do you mind taking care of his hair? If he tries to tell you he's allergic to hair gel, it's not true. Oh, and Stiles, text me when you guys are leaving, ok?"

"Fine," Stiles sighs and the video window closes.

"All right," Allison says, all business all of a sudden. "Now where is this hair gel?"

Stiles groans. "I need another shot."

 

Stiles's goal for the night -- second only to getting laid and probably a more realistic ambition than that -- is to be the best wingman a wingman can be.

"You know, Scott still hasn't seen Star Wars," Stiles says on their walk to the club. He looks meaningfully at Isaac. "I bet the right person could convince him to, though."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Scott says.

"If you haven't gotten him to watch it, I don't think anyone else will be able to," Isaac tells Stiles, sidestepping a pothole in the sidewalk with too much ease given the number of Stiles's shots he partook in.

"Maybe I'm just not the right person," Stiles pushes. "Maybe he needs someone *special* to show him the light."

"It's an overrated franchise, anyways," Isaac says.

Stiles stares at him and begins to sputter in outrage, but Scott interrupts.

"Hey, do you watch Moon Guardian? Wasn't that last episode crazy?" Scott asks.

"Yeah. Can't wait til next season," Isaac says.

"I liked the archery. It was very authentic," Allison says.

Stiles heaves a big sigh. The next season isn't until the spring. Scott and Isaac better have gotten it together and be hanging out with each other voluntarily by then. Not just because Stiles catches Isaac on set and strong-arms him into coming over, like he had had to do to get him here tonight.

 

They meet Kira at the bar at the far end of the club, far enough away from the dance floor to actually hold a conversation. She's holding something layered pink and purple in a tall glass. Stiles promptly takes it from her and drinks a sip. He nods with approval.

Kira raises her eyebrows. "I thought you didn't like sugary drinks."

"Maybe I'm developing a sweet tooth. Gotta keep up my figure somehow," Stiles says with a shrug. Then he rubs his hands together. "So, where's this girlfriend?"

"In the bathroom," Kira says. Then she turns to the group behind Stiles and extends her hand to Allison. "Nice to meet you in person. Good job on Stiles's hair."

"Thanks," Allison says. "I really like your outfit."

Stiles tunes out the rest of the fashion conversation and turns to the bartender, who's taking Scott and Isaac's orders. Scott's ordering an Old Fashioned.

"Really?" Stiles says. "You pretending to be a hipster now?"

Isaac gives him a pointed look and orders the same. Stiles sighs and tells the bartender to give him whatever Kira had ordered.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a girl with long red hair wrap an arm around Kira's waist.

Stiles turns around and --

"Holy shit," he says as he gestures wildly with his hands. "What are you doing here? Why do you have an arm around Kira? You know she's here with her new girlfriend and --"

Lydia Martin raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"Oh, fuck," Stiles says. He tugs on Scott's sleeve frantically. "Scott, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Stiles, I'm trying to pay for the drinks -- oh, hey, Lydia!"

"Hi, Scott, Isaac," Lydia says.

"Oh my god, Kira, you could have told me you were going out with the wicked witch of the west!" Stiles exclaims.

"Stiles," Scott reprimands, even as he hands Stiles his drink.

"Wicked witch of the east, actually," Lydia says smoothly. "I live on the upper East side. And you look good, Stiles. Kira, I approve of your taste."

Kira giggles and leans into Lydia's shoulder. Stiles gestures widely again at this ridiculousness.

"No, you don't!" he exclaims. "You've been telling me for almost a *year* how no one wants to see my fat ass. And you were wrong, by the way, all my films have been in your top ten."

Lydia eyes him. "In the Studios, you're my talent, and data say gay men want either muscled men or thin twinks in porn. But we're not at work now. I'm capable of compartmentalizing, you know."

"Okay?" Stiles says.

Lydia gives him a sly smile. "So I can tell you that my girlfriend has good taste in clothes and your ass isn't bad looking at all in those jeans."

The world has officially gone insane. Stiles pulls at his hair but Allison comes up and bats his hands away. "I worked hard on that," she says.

"Yeah, Stiles. If your hair is getting messed up, it better be by a hot guy," Kira tells him, grinning.

Stiles sighs and gulps down another sip of his drink.

"You guys are way too focused on this," he says. "I don't deserve this torture. No one cares if my *hair* is gelled or my jeans cost a hundred and fifty dollars."

"What if your crush is here?" Kira asks with an impish smile. "Don't you want to look good for him?"

"Oh my god, you need to stop saying that. And I told you, I do not have a crush on anyone!" Stiles exclaims.

Stiles glances back at Scott for support, but Scott and Isaac are gone, replaced by a couple of preppy guys holding hands at the bar. Scott better be grinding on Isaac on the dance floor right now or he's going to pay.

"And, anyways," Stiles says, as he starts to turn back around to Kira and Lydia. "There's no way he would be here--"

But suddenly he hears a squeal of "Derek! You made it."

Stiles feels his own eyes widen, frozen as he watches Kira give Derek Hale a hug.

Derek freaking Hale.

Stiles did not pre-game enough for this.

Derek's wearing dark jeans that curve over the muscles of his thighs. His white t-shirt looks like it might just be a Hanes 5-pack but Derek makes it look as expensive as Stiles's jeans. It hugs his waist, thin material giving more than just a hint at his abs. It's tight over his pecs, and stretches just right across his shoulders and his biceps. Stiles's eyes make it up to his face and Derek's looking at him. His eyes are sparkling in humor like he just caught Stiles blatantly checking him out.

Which, well, he probably did.

Stiles shuts his gaping mouth and swallows, feeling his cheeks heat. There's no way anyone can see him blush in the dark of the club. At least he hopes so.

"Hey, Stiles," Derek says, lips curving up in what looks like amusement.

"Oh, hey, Derek," Stiles says. He leans back onto the bar casually, except he misses and stumbles back into it instead. He sees Kira very obviously trying to suppress a laugh and Stiles glares at her.

"Hi, Derek," Allison says from next to him. Stiles glances between them and sees the moment Derek's expression hardens as he takes her in.

"Allison," Derek says in a rigid voice.

"Stiles was in my physics class last semester," she says, holding herself tightly, crossing her arms over herself. "He asked me to come."

Derek's eyes flit to Stiles then back to Allison. Stiles catches Lydia giving him an exasperated look that he totally does not deserve.

"Hey, Lyds, Allison, let's dance!" Kira says without any hint of subtlety. Lydia raises an eyebrow at her, but Kira just grabs her hand, and Allison's, and says, "Come on!"

Stiles takes a long drink as he watches them leave, leaving him alone with Derek Hale.

Wait. Left alone? Is the wingman getting wingmanned? Did Scott not just tell Kira that he had a crush but who it was on? Did Kira tell Derek? Does Derek know? Is Derek going to take the opportunity to let him down gently?

Stiles dares a look back at Derek. The bartender, a pretty and muscled blonde guy, is leaning on the counter suggestively and asking Derek if he wants a drink.

Stiles wonders what it would be like to be Derek Hale for a night. Because guaranteed it would take Stiles ten minutes of trying to flag down the bartender for him to get his attention.

Derek orders something Stiles misses the name of and turns to Stiles, "What are you drinking?"

"Oh, um," Stiles looks down at his glass, trying to think of something suitably manly. "Whiskey on ice."

Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles's glass, and the remnants of a drink that is definitely not whiskey. At least not straight up, but orders him one anyways.

"So, uh, fancy meeting you here," Stiles says when the bartender walks away to make their drinks.

Derek leans on the bar top next to him. Very... close to him. Stiles can smell the expensive spice of his cologne and kind of wants to lean into Derek.

Derek finally breaks the silence with, "Erica and Boyd were supposed to come, but Erica's sick."

"Oh yeah," Stiles asks. "She didn't come in to work yesterday, either. Hopefully she's not too sick. Even though I gotta say Sydney is way nicer, and doesn't yell at me when I mess up my hair. Erica better watch out or she'll be out of a job."

"I'm sure," Derek says dryly. Then asks, "What were you filming yesterday?"

"Just a short," Stiles says with a shrug. He massages the corner of his jaw thinking about it. "Took forever to film, though. My jaw is still sore."

"Here you go," the bartender says. Stiles watches Derek way overpay and say, "No change."

Stiles can't help but feel smug when the bartender gives Derek a flirtatious wink that Derek ignores as he turns back to Stiles.

And, if their fingers brush when Stiles takes his drink from Derek, it's not his fault. Derek's hand is just big and takes up most of the glass.

"Who were you with yesterday?" Derek asks.

He's leaning closer into Stiles, shoulders almost touching. Which is actually kind of unnecessary. It's not that loud over in this corner. But Stiles is hardly going to tell him that when it's making him feel very good things.

"The new guy from the Calaveras. Theo," Stiles says.

Derek hums, not moving away.

"So, um, is your boyfriend coming?" Stiles asks, fiddling with his glass.

"Boyfriend?" Derek asks. He draws back, looking confused.

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles says. "Or did you break up or something?"

Derek gives him a long, befuddled look, then his lips twitch. "Stiles, have you been reading the tabloids?"

"Hey, a guy has to buy milk once in a while," Stiles says defensively. Even though he's pretty sure his relief is coming through.

"The tabloids say a lot of things about me," Derek says. He leans in closer again and Stiles almost jumps in surprise when he feels Derek's hand on his hip, through his jeans and over the padding where his hipbone used to jut out. "My sister gave up suing them a long time ago."

"Right," Stiles says, struggling to breathe normally. Derek is touching him. Derek's hand is on his hip. Derek is -- okay, Stiles, focus. He knows about Derek's family. His older sister is a lawyer, so she must have tried to sue, maybe back when all that shitty stuff happened to Derek. Stiles suddenly feels really bad for believing the tabloids even for a moment, even if it wasn't even anything bad.

Stiles tries to think of some way to change the subject, and ends up blurting out, "Let's have a drinking game!"

 

"Okay, this is not as fun than I thought it would be." Stiles frowns at the row of empty shot glasses in front of Derek and the measly two in front of himself. Never mind that he might possibly already be more than a little tipsy between them and the jello shots at his apartment. His balance fails him on a regular basis, anyways, so it didn't take much to have him stumbling onto the floor for no good reason.

It's worth it, though, because when he did, Derek caught him and has been steadying Stiles with a firm arm around his waist ever since. Stiles has taken his precarious balance as an excuse to lean into Derek's broad muscular chest, and Derek has his hand slipped up under Stiles's shirt, stroking warm patterns over his soft side.

"It was your idea to drink when someone recognized us," Derek says, and downs the shot he's in his other hand. Stiles follows his gaze to a guy in the crowd who's giving Derek a 'come over here and fuck me' look.

Stiles gives the guy the stink eye as he argues, "You don't know that guy recognized you. He could just think you're hot."

Derek shakes his head. "He recognized me."

"Why do you think everyone knows who you are?" Stiles demands. "He could just appreciating random guy."

"We're in a gay club, Stiles," Derek says. "Of course they recognize me."

"Well, no one is looking at *me*, and I've been on the front page of the subscriber site for months," Stiles grouses.

"Some of us are looking at you," Derek says. He gives Stiles a very thorough once-over that makes Stiles try to suck in his belly a little to give himself a better figure. Then Derek regrettably takes his hand off Stiles's side and presses a shot glass into his hand.

Stiles huffs but takes the shot anyways.

It's hard to tell in the darkness of the corner of the club, but when Derek's eyes meet his again, his eyes look darker, pupils wider, then they were before.

Derek opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but then his eyes jerk over to a pink-haired guy across the bar who quickly turns away from them.

"See?" Derek says as he takes another shot. "If he was trying to flirt he'd keep looking. He got embarrassed and looked away. That means he recognized me."

"Ugh, seriously?" Stiles asks. He gestures at Derek up and down. "Aren't celebrities supposed to wear baseball caps and sunglasses?'

Derek shrugs. "I just wear what Kira tells me to."

"Freaking Kira Yukimura," Stiles curses. "Seriously, I can admit that I might possibly have needed the fashion help. Don't tell her I said that. But no one who looks like you needs to look even better."

He suddenly feels a cold shot glass pressed into his hand. Derek nods toward the edge of the dance floor near the entrance.

"What? Another one?" Stiles asks.

Derek is looking pointedly at a muscular bleach-blond guy who was stepping over to them, but abruptly stopped. When Stiles looks back over at him, he meets Stiles's eyes and raises his eyebrows as if asking a question.

"Drink," Derek says. "He recognizes you and he's trying to hit on you."

The guy walks away into the dance floor. Stiles glances at Derek and then shrugs and downs the shot.

"He really thinks he can hit on you when I'm right here," Derek grouses, tightening his arm around Stiles's waist.

"And that injured your pride?" Stiles laughs. Or giggles. He's not sure. "Don't think you have anything to worry about, dude. It's because no one would believe that someone who looks like you would be interested in someone who looks like this." He gestures down at himself and Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles continues, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I have the royalty checks to prove I'm not repulsive. But you're still playing a whole different ball game in a whole different league. Like, okay, sure I might play the major leagues once in a while, but I'd be the guy who sits on the bench while you're on the all-star team."

Derek gets a complicated expression on his face that Stiles is too buzzed to unravel.

Stiles says, "Okay, fuck this. One more shot and we're going to dance."

"We are?" Derek asks, lips twitching up.

"Yes," Stiles says decisively. "You're going to grind on my ass and boost my fragile self-esteem. It's the last you can do."

"Jesus," Derek says, his arm tightening around Stiles's waist. "You say that like it would be a hardship."

 

"You are so beautiful, Stiles," he hears in his ear, warm breath against his neck, making him shudder. They're dancing. Stiles thinks they're dancing. They're on the dance floor, right? He thinks there's a crowd around them. Well, the important thing is that Derek has his arms wrapped around him, and their bodies are pressed together and he just called him beautiful.

"You feel so good," he hears.

The memory fades out.

 

Derek somehow manages to look entirely sober, standing up leaning against the wall, as if he hasn't just dropped his phone three consecutive times when trying to shove it at Stiles.

Stiles just stares at it for a moment.

Then he makes a grab for Derek's wrist. He makes Derek press his thumb to get his fingerprint on the unlock key and then goes to messages. He sends himself a message and adds himself as a contact. The keyboard is a little... slippery? But he thinks he's got it right.

He hands it back, fumbling but not actually dropping it, and looks up to see Derek's eyes dark and intense on him.

"Come on, Stiles," he hears, as he feels a tug backwards on his arm. "Club's closing, time to go."

 

Stiles wakes up alone in his bed in his messy room in his shitty apartment. There's a water bottle and a couple pills on his nightstand. Stiles doesn't know whether to thank Scott or his own drunk self for the foresight.

No messages from Derek on his phone. Not that he was expecting any, but... still.

 

"So this man you say you keep running into," his father summarizes through the phone. "You say you've run into him how many times? You know, once is an incident, twice is a coincidence --"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But what counts is: one day he doesn't text, incident. Two days he doesn't text, coincidence. Three days, pattern."

Stiles is leaning back in his desk chair, balancing his phone on his shoulder as he tosses his pencil up and down to catch it. His stress ball has joined the dust bunnies and Stiles is not brave enough to face the situation under his dresser.

"Son." His father sighs. "If you really think he's worth your time, why don't you just text him?"

"I can't do that, dad! That's against the rules," Stiles says.

"Rules?"

"Uh, yeah? The rules say that the hotter person has to contact the less hot person, duh," Stiles says.

"Don't 'duh' your father," his father says. "And who's to say you're not the more attractive one?"

Stiles laughs a strangled laugh. "Uh, pretty much the whole gay world? You have no idea. It's an objective, incontrovertible fact."


End file.
